TLJC  /~\T  TToirvrri 

THE  OUTSIDER 


MAURICE   SAMUEL 


c 


' 


7 


THE  OUTSIDER 


THE  OUTSIDER 


BY 

MAURICE  SAMUEL 


Copyright  1921,  by 
DUFFIELD   &   COMPANY 

All  Rights  Reserved 


Printed  in  U.  S.  A. 


To 
GERTRUDE 


2138134 


THE  OUTSIDER 


THE  OUTSIDER 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  Lapin  Cuit  is  a  minor  cafe  near  the  crossing  of 
two  illustrious  streets  in  Paris.  It  misses  celebrity  by  a 
few  yards,  but  where  it  stands  the  twilight  crowds  pouring 
backwards  -and  forwards  by  the  Madeleine  and  the  Place 
de  la  Concorde  never  wash  its  doors.  Only  the  curious 
and  the  intimate  are  to  be  found  in  the  Lapin  Cuit.  The 
former  never  return  and  the  latter  never  go  elsewhere: 
which  gives  rise  to  the  vexing  problem  "where  did  we  get 
our  clientele  and  when?"  Nobody  knows. 

From  three  windows  of  the  cafe  the  rue  Royale  is  visible 
when  the  curtain  is  lifted,  but  there  is  no  point  in  craning 
your  neck  in  the  dreariness  of  the  Lapin  Cuit  to  watch 
the  rue  Royale.  You  can  sit  at  Weber's  for  that  and  see 
the  last  warmth  dying  beyond  the  Chambre  des  Deputes, 
and  fall  into  a  dreamy  content  with  the  flying  lights  and 
the  eager  voices  and  the  silk  stockings  and  the  twinkling 
of  glasses  and  the  careless  turmoil,  turning,  turning,  turn- 
ing, a  flood  that  sparkles  and  splashes  and  puts  you  to 
sleep :  you  can  sit  outside  for  that,  one  leg  crossed  over 
the  other,  forgetful  of  your  drink. 

But  in  the  Lapin  Cuit  you  take  Paris  for  granted. 
There  is  even  a  snobbish  superiority  in  preferring  this 
dingy  back  room  to  the  unsophisticated  ostentation  of 
Weber's,  a  subtle  distinction  in  your  civilised  indifference 
to  Babylon  By  Night.  But  few  healthy  people  really  en- 
joy subtle  distinction  for  any  length  of  time  and  even  the 
habitues  of  the  Lapin  Cuit  forget  that  there  is  any  point 

3 


4  THE  OUTSIDER 

in  preferring  the  Lapin  Cult  to  other  cafes.  So  this  ex- 
plains but  in  part  why  anybody  ever  came  to  the  Lapin 
Cuit  and,  having  come,  stayed  there  or  returned. 

But  all  this  is  mere  verbiage.  There  are  mysterious 
laws  which  govern  the  rise  and  fall  of  cafes  in  Paris.  Out 
of  the  multitude  of  uninviting  bars  scattered  thickly 
through  the  city,  one,  no  better  than  its  unwashed  fellows, 
suddenly  emerges,  takes  on  meaning  and  reputation  for 
a  dozen  people,  flourishes  obscurely,  and  vanishes,  never 
to  be  heard  of  again.  And  the  glory  passes  on  and  attacka 
another  cafe,  fifty  streets  off,  without  rhyme  or  reason. 
Sometimes  the  splendor  fastens  on  and  remains,  and  gen- 
erations  later  they  indicate  diverse  tables  and  chairs  af- 
fected by  the  legendary  heroes  of  that  time.  But  this  is 
rare,  for  there,  are  not  enough  great  men  to  go  round.  The 
average  cafe  rises,  anxiously  to  accommodate  a  few  souls  and 
with  their  departure  pales  its  ineffectual  fires  for  ever. 

In  the  autumn  of  the  year  nineteen  hundred  and  nine- 
teen, that  is,  towards,  the  close  of  the  brief  and  hectic 
American  occupation  of  Paris,  the  Lapin  Cuit  was  known 
to  Mortimer  Long.  It  was  a  discovery,  for  the  Lapin  Cuit 
had  remained  almost  unaffected  during  the  enthusiastic 
Americanisation  of  the  city:  not  quite  unaffected,  how- 
ever, for  occasional  revellers  in  khaki  and  blue  stumbled 
after  twilight  into  its  shabby  calm,  were  oppressed,  and 
withdrew.  The  sinister  blue  arm-band  of  the  M.P.  was 
sometimes  seen  there.  But  Marius,  the  proprietor  and 
waiter,  did  not  care  for  random  customers  at  night.  He 
did  not  practice  mixed  drinks;  he  refused  to  speak  bad 
English  for  anyone's  amusement.  He  looked  with  dis- 
courteous coldness  on  the  evening  adventurer,  for  the  day 
only  he  gave  to  mere  money-making.  In  the  evening  he 
turned  his  cafe  into  a  club,  and  in  its  atmosphere  he  rested 
from  his  labors.  He  liked  to  hear  a  discussion  in  progress, 


THE  OUTSIDER  5 

even  though  he  did  not  understand  a  word  of  it,  and  cer- 
tainly the  habitues  did  not,  in  the  French  phrase,  go  in 
sparing  of  the  word.  They  talked  without  provocation  and 
inexhaustibly.  They  did  not  like  each  other,  they  were 
not  even  o*ver-interested  in  each  other,  and  they  did  not 
know  why  they  came  to  the  Lapin  Cuit  of  evenings.  But 
this  last  is  one  of  the  mysterious  laws. 

Being  of  the  Lapin  Cuit  Mortimer  Long  thought  it 
proper  and  dignified  to  spend  there  the  first  evening  after 
his  demobilisation.  He  came  in  after  a  lonely  supper  at 
"The  Hole,"  still  full  of  the  exultation  of  new  liberty, 
but  calm  in  his  exultation.  It  was  early.  He  found  110- 
one  he  knew,  so  he  sat  alone  at  the  corner  left  of  the  door 
and  smiled  to  himself  and  waited,  and  occasionally  drew 
from  his  pocket  the  Discharge  Certificate  and  smiled  over 
it  'as  if  it  were  a  comic  drawing;  then  thrust  it  back  and 
still  smiled ;  then  looked  at  the  sleeves  of  his  civilian  suit 
and  smiled  more  broadly. 

"Harms,  I  am  demobilised.     Give  me  a  Cointreau." 

"Oui,  Monsieur.     I  congratulate  you." 

"You  can  take  a  Cointreau  for  yourself,  Marius." 

"I  thank  you,  Monsieur." 

Marius  raised  the  glass  to  his  lips,  manipulated  it  under 
his  great,  shaggy  moustache,  and  said  "To  yours."  He 
was  glad  to  see  Long  there  in  civilian  clothes.  He  did  not 
like  uniforms  about  the  place,  and  yet  he  had  to  acknowl- 
edge that  Long  was  of  the  club. 

"You  become  one  of  us?" 

"Yes,  Marius;  at  last." 

"You  will  stay  in  France?" 

"As  long  as  I  am  young,  Marius."  He  was  boisterous 
in  his  certainty  of  it. 

"Ah,  you  still  have  a  long  time  to  be  young." 

"Let  us  hope  it,  Marius." 


6  THE  OUTSIDER 

Marius  seemed  to  consider  this  for  a  moment,  may  have 
thought  of  something  worth  while  but  unsuitable,  sighed, 
and  moved  off  with  his  tray.  As  he  went  out  three  men 
came  in.  The  first  raised  his  hand  to  Long. 

"Ho,  Mortimer.     Good  for  you.     A  man  at  last." 

Long  raised  his  hand  in  response  and  nodded. 

' '  Yes,  sir.  Do  I  look  more  civilised  ?  Have  a  Cointreau 
with  me,  you  fellows." 

They  sat  down  at  the  table  with  him,  the  first  a  young 
man  with  small,  dark,  oriental  features;  by  him  a  big, 
blond  Englishman;  and  on  the  seat  next  to  Long  a  rosy- 
faced  old  man,  white-haired,  with  twinkling  eyes. 

"You've  never  been  demobilised  in  Paris  before?"  said 
the  last. 

"Not  to  speak  of,  Cray.  But  the  process  is  pleasant. 
I  feel  like  a  young  king.  Say,  where 's  the  kid,  Ezra?" 
This  question  he  addressed  to  the  first. 

"Overtime,  I  think.  She  didn't  turn  up  for  supper. 
I'd  have  come  to  the  Hole  if  I'd  have  known.  Was  the 
operation  easy?" — he  returned  to  Long's  new  status. 

"Worked  like  a  dream.  Took  ten  minutes  to  make  me 
a  new  man.  Here's  my  birth  certificate."  He  passed  the 
Discharge  Certificate  round. 

"Feels  good,  doesn't  it?"  said  Ezra,  smiling. 

"Feels  like  a  million  dollars.  Feels  like  nothing  I've 
felt  before.  I  've  been  a  civilian  before,  but  never  a  civilian 
in  Paris." 

There  followed  a  silence,  and  then  Long  took  up  his 
theme  again. 

"I'd  rather  be  a  beggar  in  Paris  than  a  prince  back 
home.  The  mere  person  in  Paris  is  the  aristocrat  of  the 
world.  I  'd  rather  sit  in  this  hole  of  a  cafe  and  do  nothing 
than  edit  the  Atlantic  Monthly  in  Boston." 

The  old  man  with  the  twinkling  eyes  tapped  his  glass 


THE  OUTSIDER  7 

in  approval.  "Well  said.  Personally  I'd  rather  be  sober 
in  Paris  than  drunk  in  Paradise." 

"That's  a  figure  of  speech,  Cray,"  said  the  young  man 
Ezra.  "You've  never  been  the  first,  and  you'll  never  get 
a  chance  at  the  second." 

Only  Long  did  not  laugh.  "I'm  serious,"  he  said. 
"This  place  speaks  to  me  plainly  and  says  'stay  right 
here.'  I  think  it's  the  spirit  of  the  irresponsible.  There's 
not  a  soul  in  Paris  for  whose  good  opinion  I'd  spend  ten 
cents,  and  there's  not  a  soul  here  would  spend  the  same 
sum  to  save  me  from  damnation.  That's  why  I  love  the 
place."  He  stopped  suddenly  and  looked  at  the  door. 

Two  young  women  had  just  come  in,  a  little  French  girl 
in  a  green  cloak  and  a  big  blond  woman  with  a  handsome, 
vulgar  face.  They  made  for  the  table,  and  then  followed 
noisy  congratulations  to  Mortimer  in  English  and  French. 

"Aha,  Mr.  Long.  The  ladies  won't  be  as  kind  to  you 
as  they  used  to  be,"  said  the  blond  woman.  "You're  a 
civilian  now,  no  uniform.  Only  your  good  looks." 

"He  doesn't  want  anyone  to  be  kind  to  him,"  said  old 
Cray. 

"No,"  said  Mortimer,  holding  forth  again  when  the 
women  were  seated.  "I  don't  like  the  sound  of  the  word 
kindness.  Kindness  belongs  to  my  home  town — the  word, 
I  mean.  It  goes  with  gratitude  and  cant  and  responsibility. 
In  this  town  people  give  and  take  with  no  notions  of  kind- 
ness; there's  freedom  here,  if  you  like,  and  carelessness, 
and  joy  and  merriment — but  to  hell  with  kindness. ' ' 

Ezra  sat  with  hands  clasped  on  the  table.  Cray  and  he 
were  amused  at  Mortimer's  enthusiasm. 

"I'm  with  you  for  Paris,"  said  Ezra,  "and  I've  been 
in  many  places.  I've  been  in  many  places  and  belong 
nowhere.  I  was  a  child  in  a  dirty  village  in  Poland,  and 
a  boy  in  London,  and  a  raincoat  maker  in  New  Zealand, 


8  THE  OUTSIDER 

and  a  hobo  in  the  Middle  West;  I  belong  nowhere  and 
I'm  at  home  in  Paris." 

"Paris  is  irresponsible,"  said  Mortimer.  "And  life  is 
irresponsible.  Life  thrust  me  into  the  world  at  large. 
Back  home  they  pretend  that  life  spat  me  out  to  fit  in 
exactly  over  there,  with  the  neighbors  and  the  Sunday 
School  and  the  week-end  dances,  and  'How  d'ye  do,  Mrs. 
Settles,  I  do  hope  your  cold's  better,'  'And  how  are  you, 
Mrs.  Bean,  and  when  are  you  paying  us  a  visit,'  and  Mr. 
Weston,  the  editor  of  the  Times,  and  my  uncle,  who's  a 
Deacon,  and  the  rest  of  'em.  They  want  me  to  be  a  dutiful 
son  and  an  ornament  to  the  family  and  a  lesson  to  the 
young  man.  And  I  don't  wanna.  Life  didn't  mean  me 
to  be  like  that." 

"What  did  life  mean  you  to  be,  anyway,  Mr.  Long?" 
said  the  blond  woman. 

"Life  didn't  mean  me  to  be  anything,  Mrs.  Cray,"  an- 
swered Mortimer  emphatically.  "Life  hasn't  got  an  aim; 
only  families  and  neighbors  have  aims.  Life  meant  me  to 
be  nothing  at  all;  and  the  only  place  where  nobody '11  in- 
terfere with  my  being  nothing  at  all  is  here — in  Paris — 
in  the  Lapin  Cuit." 

He  said  this  warmly  and  as  with  a  sense  of  injustices 
long  borne. 

"The  right  not  to  be,"  said  Cray. 

"Yes.  Ever  since  I've  been  on  earth  people  have 
wanted  me  to  be  something.  Mother  wanted  me  to  be  a 
minister;  father  wanted  me  to  be  an  engineer;  at  College 
the  professor  wanted  me  to  be  a  socially  conscious  indi- 
vidual; the  girl  next  door  wanted  me  to  be  her  husband. 
They've  tried  to  have  me  a  God-fearing  man,  a  successful 
business-man,  a  good  citizen — and  I  don't  want  to  be  any- 
thing." 


THE  OUTSIDER  9 

"You  don't  feel  any  propensity,  so  to  speak,"  inter- 
rupted Cray. 

"That's  it.  Never  had  an  honest  propensity  of  my  own," 
said  Mortimer.  "At  least,  none  that  I  could  distinguish. 
But  they  won't  understand  that  over  there.  You've  got 
to  have  one;  it's  what  they  call  the  sense  of  responsibility 
— to  the  Almighty,  said  my  uncle — to  Society,  said  my 
Professor — to  the  family,  said  my  father  and  mother — 
to  me,  intimated  the  lady  next  door — though  I'd  never 
proposed  to  her  and  hadn't  kissed  her  more  than  the  other 
fellows  had.  Well,  I  've  got  no  sense  of  responsibility ;  and 
I  don't  want  to  develop  one.  Which  is  the  reason  why 
I'm  here,  in  Paris." 

"Don't  insist  so  much,  though,"  said  Ezra,  "or  it'll 
begin  to  sound  like  a  duty." 

"Pooh,  I'm  not  afraid  of  a  paradox,"  answered  Morti- 
mer contemptously.  "The  chief  thing  is  to  be  let  alone, 
and  I  can't  be  let  alone  elsewhere.  Nobody  interferes 
with  my  conscience  here.  Nobody  owes  me  anything;  I 
don't  owe  anything  to  anybody.  God  doesn't  worry 
about  anybody  in  Paris;  Society  doesn't  worry  about  me 
here.  I  can  rot,  write  poetry,  starve,  get  drunk,  go  to 
Church,  fall  in  love  or  drop  dead  with  the  minimum  of 
outside  interference.  Vive  Paris!" 

"I  think  we  can  order  new  drinks  now,"  said  Cray. 
"Marius!" 

"Mado,"  said  Ezra  in  French  to  his  companion,  "have 
you  understood  what  Mortimer  means  to  say?"  His  tone 
indicated  doubt  and  some  degree  of  derision. 

"Bien  sur,  I  have  understood.  You  take  me  for  an 
imbecile?"  she  answered  indignantly. 

"You  lie,  Mado.  You  did  not  understand  a  single  word." 
They  stared  steadily  at  each  other,  Ezra  grinning,  Mado 
frowning  in  mock  indignation. 


10  THE  OUTSIDER 

"He  speaks  English  too  fast  for  me,"  she  confessed. 
"But  he  said  he  kissed  the  girl  next  door  and  would  have 
to  marry  her.  Ah,  that's  the  way  they  are,  les  Ameri- 
caines.  So  he  wants  to  remain  in  Paris." 

"I  wonder,"  said  Ezra,  with  slow  malice,  "whether  this 
rapid  and  vulgar  appraisal  of  the  entire  situation  does 
not  come  a  good  deal  nearer  the  point  than  your  high 
falutin',  Mortimer." 

"Very  likely  it  gets  as  near,"  answered  Mortimer,  in- 
differently. "Excuse  my  sudden  outbreak.  It's  the  result 
of  the  demobilisation.  Ah,  there's  Renee." 

The  cafe  was  filling  slowly.  Renee  was  a  very  small 
girl,  dark,  with  brilliant  eyes,  a  delicate  aquiline  nose, 
and  wonderful  teeth.  She  came  in  with  a  yellow-faced, 
hungry-looking  young  woman,  carrying  a  child  in  her  arms. 
A  group  of  young  men  and  women,  poorly  dressed — the 
men  mostly  without  collars  and  the  women  in  cheap  cloaks 
— sat  at  the  corner  opposite  Mortimer.  As  a  rule  they 
drank  coffee,  undiluted,  which  is  the  cheapest  drink  and 
lasts  longer  than  any  other. 

"Bonsoir,  Renee."  This  was  the  first  word  uttered  by 
the  blond  Englishman  at  table.  He  turned  round  to  give 
the  salutation  and  looked  long  at  the  girl. 

"Bonsoir,  old  man." 

"Come  and  sit  here  and  take  a  drink  with  me." 

4 '  Too  bad.  My  friend  Edmond  has  already  asked  me  to 
take  le  cafe,  and  I  have  accepted.  You  should  see  me 
sooner." 

Edmond  was  a  quiet  French  youth  who  seldom  smiled 
because  he  lacked  two  front  teeth.  He  looked  antagonisti- 
cally at  the  Englishman,  who  was  ignoring  him.  It  was 
known  in  the  cafe*  that  Masters,  the  Englishman,  had  been 
casting  eyes  at  Renee  for  some  weeks — and  she  was  co- 
quetting with  him.  At  this  moment  she  was  smiling  at 


THE  OUTSIDER  11 

him  with  infinite  coquetry  in  her  eyes.  True,  she  still 
had  an  attachment,  but  the  young  man  was  showing  no 
fight;  which  inclined  most  of  the  girls  to  the  belief  that 
Edmond  would  disappear  shortly  from  the  Lapin  Cuit. 

While  this  flirtation  was  going  on  the  yellow-faced  young 
woman  was  passing  the  baby  round — not  in  a  spirit  of 
pride,  but  as  a  concession  to  the  general  practice  of  moth- 
ers. The  women  inspected  the  bundle,  put  their  fingers 
in  the  baby's  mouth  with  a  show  of  interest,  and  passed  it 
on.  Threa  Frenchman  sat  at  a  corner  table — Frenchmen 
were  in  a  minority  in  the  Lapin  Cuit — and  played  cards. 
Two  Americans — Gorman,  who  was  thought  to  be  shady, 
and  his  friend  Teddy,  talked  nose  to  nose  near  them  and 
scribbled  with  a  pencil  on  the  edge  of  a  newspaper.  Two 
girls  sat  by  them,  content  to  be  ignored  by  their  com- 
panions, and  talked  over  their  own  affairs. 

Mortimer  let  the  conversation  pass  to  old  Cray,  who 
began  an  incident  concerning  his  early  youth  in  Cali- 
fornia. Old  Cray  told  stories  well,  making  capital  of  an 
engaging  stammer  which  imparted  a  graceful  hesitancy 
to  his  speech.  But  Mortimer  did  not  listen.  He  looked 
with  a  vague  friendliness  from  one  person  to  the  other — 
Cray,  Mrs.  Cray,  Ezra,  Mado,  Masters,  Gorman,  Teddy, 
Rene"e,  the  yellow-faced  girl  with  the  dirty  baby,  the 
Frenchmen  in  the  corner,  Edmond,  the  girls  whispering 
by  Gorman  and  Teddy.  He  was  thinking  how  little  any 
one  person  in  the  room  knew  concerning  the  others.  He 
knew  nobody  here,  except  Ezra  Rich ;  he  had  no  idea  how 
these  men  lived,  what  friends  they  had,  what  relatives, 
what  hopes  and  ambitions,  what  views.  Who  was  old 
Cray,  there,  speaking  in  that  polished  way  of  his?  He 
told  tales  of  his  youth  in  California ;  he  told  how  he  used 
to  write  for  big  American  magazines — quite  credibly,  for 
he  was  obviously  a  man  of  parts.  He  told  stories  of  Jo- 


12  THE  OUTSIDER 

hannisburg,  of  Japan,  of  London,  of  palmy  days  of  dollars 
and  pounds.  But  he  never  told  why  he  was  in  Paris  at  the 
age  of  sixty,  without  money,  or  hopes,  or  a  reputation ;  nor 
did  he  tell  how  he  lived,  though  he  never  borrowed  or  tried 
to  borrow  money,  nor  ever  held  a  job,  nor  ever  received 
money  from  outside  sources.  lie  never  made  a  secret  of 
himself,  yet  never  told  anybody  anything  to  the  point.  He 
was  drunk  nine  evenings  out  of  ten — with  occasional  in- 
tervals of  despairing  sobriety — hungry  two  days  out  of 
three,  and  always  consoled  by  the  memory  of  happy  days. 

He  and  Mrs.  Cray  lived  in  an  obscure  hotel  in  the  welter 
of  streets  between  the  Grands  Boulevards  and  the  rue  La- 
fayette, somewhere  near  the  Folies  Bergeres.  Since  they 
had  been  living  there  for  years  Mortimer  presumed  that 
they  paid  their  rent.  He  was  anxious  for  some  insight 
into  Cray's  budget,  for  one  hears  of  such  people  so  often. 
But  this  interest,  he  confessed  to  himself,  was  not  an  aca- 
demic one. 

Back  home,  he  reflected,  old  Cray  would  be  a  character 
— The  Evils  of  Drink,  or  The  Rolling  Stone.  Back  home 
you  had  to  take  up  an  attitude  towards  this  man — you 
might  be  severe,  or  charitable,  or  regretful,  but  he  ob- 
viously called — back  home — for  some  appropriate  point  of 
view.  In  Paris  nobody  had  a  point  of  view  about  old 
Cray,  or  his  young  blond  wife,  although  Mortimer  him- 
self thought  that  she  belonged  to  the  worse  type  of  tra- 
ditional chorus-girl ;  but  that  was  an  individual  impression. 

And  for  that  matter,  though  he  had  known  Ezra  for 
nearly  a  year — who  was  he?  A  Jew  born  in  Poland  and 
educated  everywhere  else;  who  spoke  King's  English  and 
brilliant  French ;  called  by  Mado  "My  little  American  from 
Montmartre"  because  he  claimed  to  be  an  American  by 
naturalisation  and  spoke  French  like  a  true  Montmartrois ; 
he  had  brothers  and  sisters  and  uncles  and  cousins  in  every 


THE  OUTSIDER  13 

country  of  the  world ;  spoke  at  times  with  passionate  love 
of  his  race,  at  times  with  contempt  for  all  such  instincts; 
longed  sometimes  to  be  part  of  a  people,  to  be  in  a  country 
truly  his  own,  like  Palestine,  "the  land  of  the  prophets,  my 
fathers,"  and  sometimes  repudiated  with  fiery  indignation 
these  base  tribal  passions ;  and  stayed  in  Paris  with  Mado. 
He  and  Mortimer  liked  each  other,  but  in  their  friendship 
there  was  a  fear  of  knowing  each  other  too  well,  an  in- 
stinctive retreat  from  too  earnest  a  relationship. 

Mortimer  reflected  with  pleasure  on  this  distance  that 
men  kept  from  each  other.  He  did  not  know  Rich,  did 
not  want  to  know  him.  Intimacy  bred  interference,  belief 
in  destinies  and  purposes.  It  was  pleasant  to  think  of 
Rich  as  a  detached  unit  of  life,  something  more  fortunate 
than  himself,  who  still  had  ties  and  received  letters  from 
a  family,  and  had  obligations;  something  he  could  envy 
and  emulate,  a  God-forsaken,  man-forsaken  clot  of  valiant 
dust,  independent  of  all  aids  for  the  stupid — society,  re- 
ligion, friends,  family 

Cray  had  come  to  the  end  of  his  story  and  was  drinking. 
Mrs.  Cray  had  gone.  Gorman  and  Teddy  had  emerged 
from  their  calculations  and  were  playing  more  attention 
to  their  companions.  Renee  was  flirting  furtively  with 
Masters  and  Edmond  was  watching  morosely.  Mado  was 
asserting  her  rights  and  making  love  to  Rich,  who  watched 
her  half  amused,  half  indifferent. 

"Behave,  Mado;  we  were  talking  philosophy." 

"La  barbe,  mon  petit.  I  have  been  behaving  all  day 
in  the  atelier.  Must  I  behave  in  the  evening  too?  You 
will  not  come  to  the  Cinema,  you  will  not  come  for  a  walk 
with  me.  You  sit  here  and  gabble,  gabble." 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do?" 

"Pay  more  attention  to  me." 

"And  if  not?" 


14  THE  OUTSIDER 

"I  will  pay  none  to  you.    I  shall  get  angry." 

The  last  threat  was  nonsense;  since  Mado  loved  Ezra 
helplessly,  she  had  no  recourse  in  the  face  of  his  occasional 
indifference.  Still,  from  a  spirit  of  kindliness,  he  pre- 
tended that  if  she  were  to  be  offended  he  would  be  upset. 
Mortimer  understood  this  by-play  and  liked  Rich's  care- 
less gentleness.  Others  might  have  said,  "By  all  means 
get  angry" — this  being  the  substance  of  Rich's  attitude: 
but  Rich  never  did  this  unless  to  tease. 

"No,  mon  petit  Mado.  You  must  not  get  angry  with 
me.  It  is  man's  habit  to  gabble,  gable  in  this  way.  You're 
a  woman  and  are  wiser,  n'est-ce  pas?" 

Mado  looked  from  Rich  to  Mortimer,  never  quite  sure 
of  herself. 

"Ez.,  are  you  making  mock  of  me?"  She  pulled  his 
ear  prettily. 

"No,  little  one!  If  I  do  that,  forsake  me  for  my  hand- 
some friend  there." 

Mado  inspected  Mortimer  critically.  "He'll  do,"  she 
said,  then  she  whispered  into  Rich's  ear — "but  you  know 
my  friend  Carmen?" 

"I  think  so,"  he  said  quite  untruthfully. 

"She  wants  to  know  your  friend.  She  wants  to  know 
if  he  already  has  a  friend." 

"Gorgeous!  What  scruples!  Mortimer,  you'd  think 
you  were  way  back  home.  There's  a  young " 

Mado  clapped  a  hand  fiercely  over  Ezra's  mouth.  "Little 
idiot !  You  mustn  't  tell. ' ' 

Rich  struggled  and  held  Mado's  hands  down.  "A  friend 
of  this  young  lady  actually  wants  to  be  introduced  to  you 
— introduced ! ' ' 

"Tell  her  it  isn't  done  in  our  circles  in  Paris." 

"It's  untrue,"  panted  Mado.    "I  was  fooling." 


THE  OUTSIDER  15 

"She  further  wants  to  know  whether  your  affections  are 
engaged — at  least,  whether  your  spare  time  is. ' ' 

"She  doesn't  give  a  d !"  said  Mado,  angrily.  "Ez., 

I'm  angry.  Tu  n'es  pas  un  gentleman." 

"Tut,  tut,  little  rabbit,"  said  Ezra,  soothingly.  "See- 
ing he  doesn't  know  her,  or  her  name,  it  doesn't  matter. 
Why  doesn't  she  come  and  speak  to  him?" 

"Why  should  she?  She  isn't  interested  in  him,  or  he 
in  her." 

"Ha!  Mortimer — you've  offended  somebody  by  ig- 
noring her."  Mado  could  not  follow  this. 

"It's  safer  to  do  that  before  you  know  a  lady  than 
after,"  said  Mortimer. 

"My  friend  Mortimer  is  very  timid,"  translated  Ezra 
freely  to  Mado. 

"It  is  of  no  importance,"  said  Mado,  stubbornly.  "No- 
body cares." 

"Tell  your  lady  friend,"  said  Mortimer,  "that  if  I 
could  see  her  without  her  knowing  it,  it  would  be  better." 
Mortimer  spoke  indifferent  French,  which  was  at  that 
time  to  be  considered  an  asset  in  Paris.  Ezra's  faultless 
French  gave  him  too  plausible  an  air;  Frenchmen  and 
Frenchwomen  were  suspicious  of  his  easy  worldliness;  but 
Mortimer's  foreignness  was  intriguing  and  disarming. 
Perhaps  the  disingenuous  friendliness  of  his  blue  eyes — 
vastly  different  from  the  sophisticated  courtesy  in  Ezra's 
— had  something  to  do  with  it. 

"Above  all,  tell  your  friend,"  added  Mortimer,  "that 
I  hate  complications." 

"You  don't  want  to  compromise  yourself,"  suggested 
Mado,  mockingly. 

"Put  it  that  way." 

"Well,"  she  answered,  annoyed,  "if  I  had  a  girl  friend, 
and  she  were  interested  in  you,  I  should  certainly  disillu- 


16  THE  OUTSIDER 

sion  her.  You  are  frightfully  careful,  you  courageous 
man.  Why  don 't  you  say  outright  that  you  are  engaged  ? ' ' 

"Remarkable  persons,  these  French  girls,"  commented 
Mortimer,  impersonally.  "They  will  not  believe  that  in- 
difference to  a  lady  is  real  and  absolute.  You  are  either 
engaged  or  your  taste  runs  to  different  shapes. ' ' 

' '  Their  views  are  rather  plump, ' '  agreed  Ezra,  ' '  but  not 
far  out.  It  generally  comes  to  what  they  say.  Mado, 
don 't  you  believe  that  a  gentleman  can  be  quite  unattached 
and  yet  indifferent  to  the  advances  of  a  charming  lady?" 

Mado  reflected  and,  fearing  to  be  thought  too  naive, 
equivocated. 

"There  are  men  like  that,  I  suppose.  But  I  do  hope 
Monsieur  Mortimer  is  not  one  of  them." 

' '  It  outrages  her  sense  of  the  proper,  doesn  't  it,  Mado  ? ' ' 
commented  Ezra. 

"Oui,  I  think  it  is  improper,"  she  agreed,  not  quite 
understanding.  "All  the  same,"  she  went  on,  "it  isn't 
nice  of  Monsieur  Mortimer  to  say  that  he  is  afraid  of  a 
friend  of  mine  compromising  him.  Does  he  take  her  for 
a  shark,  who  wants  to  know  him  for  the  sake  of  his  money  ? 
Does  he  think  her  an  American — he  won't  to  able  to  take 
her  to  the  movies  without  marrying  her?  My  friends  are 
not  like  that." 

"Always  concrete,  Mado.  You're  a  blessing  to  us  ab- 
stract persons,"  said  Ezra.  "But  there  are  subtler  com- 
plications. ' ' 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Mado,  warmly, 
"but  if  you  think  my  friends  are  like  that,  then  you  think 
that  I  am  like  that." 

"Good  heavens,  she's  trying  to  work  herself  into  a  rage," 
said  Ezra.  "I  can  see  it  coming.  Mado,  I  am  not  in  the 
humor  this  evening." 

"Tell  me  one  thing,  Ezra.    Am  I  very  exacting?" 


THE  OUTSIDER  17 

"No,  my  love,"  he  said,  soothingly,  "you  are  the  soul 
of  discretion  and  modesty,  the  very  paragon  of  the  un- 
ambitious— but  don't  make  a  scene.  It  isn't  polite.  You 
must  excuse  her,  Mortimer.  She  has  temperament." 

Mortimer  knew  these  scenes.  Mado,  he  believed,  only 
partially  enjoyed  them.  To  be  able  to  make  a  scene  was 
to  her  the  proof  of  her  place  in  Ezra 's  affections — a  proof, 
however,  still  incomplete  because  she  could  never  put  Ezra 
into  a  rage.  This,  Mortimer  believed,  was  her  secret 
longing  and  ambition:  to  put  Ezra  into  a  rage,  reduce 
him  to  violence,  threaten  dissolution  of  their  bond — and 
then  to  make  up  in  a  grand  scene,  crude  but  passionate. 
Ezra's  opinion  was  that  she  got  it  all  from  a  song  then 
at  the  height  of  its  popularity,  and  the  substance  of  which 
was  contained  in  two  lines 

Quand  on  a  verse   des  larmes 
On  s'aime  bien  mieux  apres, 
which  is  a  Boulevard  version  of 

"0  we  fell  out,  my  wife  and  I, 
And  kissed  again  with  tears." 

"You're  not  fair,  Ezra,"  said  Mortimer.  "Why  don't 
you  show  a  little  excitement  when  the  lady's  annoyed? 
You  're  taking  the  joy  out  of  her  life. ' ' 

"I  never  give  her  ground  for  annoyance,"  answered 
Ezra.  "I'm  all  for  a  peaceful  existence,  and  I'm  going 
to  get  it — dead  or  alive." 

Apparently,  however,  Mado  herself  was  not  in  real  fight- 
ing humor,  for  she  gave  up  the  attempt  with  a  sigh. 

"You  don't  care  what  I  feel,  what  I  say,  what  I  do," 
she  remonstrated.  ' '  You  don 't  care  what  people  say  about 
me,  or  my  friends." 

"That's  a  sensible  way  to  talk,  mon  petit,"  said  Ezra, 
"when  you  talk  like  that  I  love  you." 

"Poor  little  Mado,"  sympathised  Mortimer.    "You  are 


18  THE  OUTSIDER 

really  a  modest  little  girl  and  all  you  seem  to  ask,  like 
your  friend,  is  to  be  allowed  to  love." 

"My  friend  asked  nothing  of  the  sort." 

"But  they  are  modest,"  said  Ezra,  thoughtfully.  "I've 
been  the  world  over,  and  for  honest,  friendly  devotion — 
while  it  lasts— commend  me  to  these  little  girls  in  Paris. 
You  don't  want  any  dresses,  do  you  Mado?  And  you  don't 
want  restaurants,  and  joy  rides,  and  chocolates,  and  flow- 
ers? And  cinema's  good  enough  for  you,  isn't  it?  And 
all  you  ask  at  the  end  is  to  be  allowed  to  go  in  peace. 
That's  why  I  like  you,  Mado,  though  I'm  afraid  it's  love 
for  the  species,  too." 

"Remember  Nietzsche's  good  advice,"  said  Mortimer. 
"  It  is  love  for  the  whole  human  race  you  express  in  kissing 
your  neighbor,  but  don't  tell  this  to  your  neighbor." 

"Mado  doesn't  understand  large  abstract  affections, 
like  Teufelsdreck's,  do  you,  petit  Mado?" 

"I  don't  understand  anything,"  she  whispered,  kissing 
him,  "except  that  look  in  your  eyes,  which  I  adore." 

"Mado,  I  have  expressly  forbidden  you  to  kiss  me  in 
the  cafe.  Will  you  never  learn?" 

"You're  right,  Ezra,"  said  Mortimer.  "Their  love 
has  all  the  beauty  of  the  irresponsible.  They  strike  no 
bargains,  they  barter  no  obligations.  Love  happens  to 
them  as  life  happens  to  them,  without  contracts  and  prom- 
ises. Take  what  comes  and  rejoice  in  it  if  you  can." 

"They're  plucky,"  said  Ezra. 

' '  Of  course  they  're  plucky.  It  takes  all  the  pluck  in  the 
world  to  stand  up  to  life  by  yourself — without  society  to 
back  you  up,  without  marriage-licenses,  or  relatives,  with- 
out even  a  sense  of  your  own  importance  and  self-righteous- 
ness. They  carry  their  hunger  and  their  heart-break  with- 
out help.  They  don't  protest  to  God  or  humanity." 


THE  OUTSIDER  19 

"You  speak  most  infallibly  of  them,  Mortimer.  Mado, 
does  anyone  owe  you  anything?" 

"What?" 

"If  I  deserted  you  tomorrow,  would  you  invoke  the  cate- 
goric imperative?  Would  you  even  feel  a  noble  sense  of 
injury.  You  would  not.  Therefore  I  do  not  desert  you. ' ' 

"Yes,"  said  Mortimer,  kindling.  "They  are  the  true 
children  of  Paris,  the  heroic  irresponsibles. " 

"I  think,  Mado,"  said  Ezra,  with  a  sly  glance  at  Morti- 
mer, "you  may  bring  your  friend  round  tomorrow  evening. 
This  evening  would  be  better  still,  but  I  suppose  it's  too 
late." 

"I  am  certainly  in  the  dangerous  state,"  admitted  Mort- 
imer, laughing.  "But  tomorrow  will  be  too  late.  I  tell 
you  what,  we  can  pay  Marius  and  go  out  for  a  walk." 

"Do  you  mind,"  said  Masters — offering  his  first  remark 
to  the  table,  "Do  you  mind  if  I  come  along."  He  said 
this  shyly. 

"Of  course  you  come  along,"  said  Mortimer,  touched 
by  a  consciousness  of  something  lonely  in  the  Englishman. 
' '  I  understood  that.  Marius ! '  * 

They  nodded  goodnight  to  almost  everyone  in  the  cafe, 
and  went  out.  A  thin  wind  was  coming  up  the  quiet 
street.  A  few  yards  away  the  rue  Royale  was  brilliant, 
and  from  the  crowds  that  went  right  and  left  drifted  the 
joyous  confusion  of  sound  which  is  of  Paris  alone.  The 
group  hesitated  outside  the  door  of  the  Lapin  Cuit,  then 
turned  east  to  the  Place  de  la  Concorde,  on  which  lay  the 
mingled  glamor  of  pale  blue  moonlight  and  violet  electric 
light.  The  slender  monolith  in  the  centre  of  the  square 
was  ghostlike,  part  against  the  tremendous  depth  of  the 
blue  sky,  part  against  the  dark  buildings  on  the  further 
side  of  the  river. 


20  THE  OUTSIDER 

"Allans,"  said  Mado,  "we've  already  seen  the 
Concorde. ' ' 

She  made  off  arm  in  arm  with  Ezra  across  the  square, — 
behind  each  of  them  two  shadows,  a  distinct  one  that 
lengthened  and  turned  as  on  a  pivot,  another  squat  and 
pallid,  that  went  with  them,  changelessly  sedate.  Morti- 
mer and  Masters  followed. 

They  went  by  the  closed  gates  of  the  Tuileries  to  the 
edge  of  the  river,  and  walked  slowly  east,  towards  the 
Latin  Quarter,  the  four  of  them  abreast  in  the  lonely 
street.  Ezra  was  on  the  right,  then  Mado,  linked  with 
him  and  Mortimer,  and  Masters  on  the  left,  the  tallest 
of  the  four.  All  of  them  had  caught  in  part  the  excite- 
ment which  moved  Mortimer. 

* '  I  too, ' '  began  Masters,  ' '  think  of  Paris  as  the  irrespon- 
sible— but  not  as  you  do,  Long.  This  is  the  place  for  men 
who  had  a  sense  of  responsibility  and  failed  to  satisfy  it. 
That's  why  I'm  here.  I  heard  Rich  say  that  he  belonged 
to  no  one  and  to  nowhere — so  he  lives  in  Paris;  he  never 
did  belong  to  anyone  or  anywhere ;  I  did  once,  though. ' ' 

Their  steps  went  rhythmically  along  when  he  stopped 
speaking.  No  one  interrupted,  because  Masters  so  seldom 
spoke  of  himself. 

"I  did  once,"  he  continued  slowly,  "but  I  forfeited 
it.  I  wasn't  strong  enough  to  stand  my  ground.  Yes — " 
he  lowered  his  voice  in  a  certain  embarrassment,  and  was 
glad  that  no  one  was  looking  at  him,  "I  was  once  an 
Englishman  and  knew  what  that  kinship  meant." 

"Every  great  race,"  he  went  on,  after  a  pause,  "carries 
with  it  a  fringe  of  impotence.  I  was  borne  into  that 
fringe.  Once  I  got  near  the  heart  of  my  people,  and  felt 
the  blood  that  beats  from  there.  But  I  couldn't  stay  there. 

"For  such  a  man  as  me  Paris  is  a  good  place,  too.  There's 
no  kinship  in  Paris,  and  there's  no  regret  because  there's 


THE  OUTSIDER  21 

no  sense  of  time.  You  are  here  in  a  great  anonymous 
ferment.  Thank  God  nobody  cares." 

He  laughed  nervously,  rather  ashamed  of  his  self-rev- 
elation. 

Mortimer  was  uncomfortable.  He  feared  that  Masters 
would  tell  something  that  he  would  regret  later;  besides, 
he  had  heard  enough,  and  felt  he  understood.  He  did  not 
want  to  know  what  treachery  had  come  into  this  man 's  life. 

"That  is  not  what  I  meant,  Masters,"  he  said,  trying 
to  divert  the  tendency  of  the  conversation.  ' '  I  don 't  think 
of  Paris  as  you  do,  as  a  place  to  come  and  die  in;  nor, 
as  others  do,  who  think  that  to  be  irresponsible  means  to 
be  indecent.  It  means  rather  to  live  without  prejudices. 
Here  I  feel  as  I  tried  to  feel  at  home  and  couldn't — a  free 
and  unattached  thing.  Man  is  born  free  and  everywhere 
he  is  in  chains.  He  is  cursed  with  prenatal  intentions  on 
the  part  of  others.  Isn't  it  enough  that  I  accept  the 
burden  of  my  life,  which  I  never  asked  for?  Must  I  in 
addition  be  responsible  to  parents,  to  relatives,  to  society, 
to  God,  to  the  Church.  I  don't  want  it.  I  don't  want  it. 
I  reject  whatever  benefits  these  things  imply  and  refuse 
the  obligations.  Paris  has  nothing  to  do  with  success  or 
failure.  I  don't  think  of  my  life  in  terms  like  these. 
I  can't  conceive  what  success  means — and  therefore  do 
not  understand  what  it  is  to  fail. ' ' 

"You  are  much  younger  than  I,"  said  Masters,  regret- 
fully, "and  perhaps  more  fortunately  constituted.  If 
bare  life  is  enough  for  you — happy  you." 

They  were  just  then  at  the  bridge  that  crosses  the 
Seine  below  the  Louvre.  From  the  street-level  steps  lead 
down  to  the  very  bank  of  the  river.  They  went  down 
these  steps,  and  walked  for  a  while  on  the  cobble-stone 
path  almost  on  a  level  with  the  water.  Little  waves  came 
across  the  darkness  streaked  with  ribbons  of  reflected  light, 


22  THE  OUTSIDER 

and  splashed  ceaselessly  at  their  feet,  always  on  the  point 
of  making  up  a  regnlar  rhythm,  then  breaking  into  chaos 
again;  yet  always  infinitely  musical. 

"I  have  always  thought  of  the  Seine  as  something  like 
the  river  of  forgetfulness, "  said  Masters. 

"Amongst  my  people,"  recounted  Ezra,  "there  is  a 
certain  religious  custom  which  I  think  of  now.  Once  a 
year — I  forget  when — the  pious  Jew  comes  to  the  river- 
edge  and  empties  his  pockets — literally — into  the  water. 
He  casts  his  sins  into  the  water,  to  be  borne  away  to  the 
sea." 

"Like  city  garbage,"  suggested  Mortimer. 

"And  as  soon  forgotten  and  accumulated  again,"  agreed 
Ezra.  "But  friend  Masters  comes  to  cast  his  memories 
into  the  Seine." 

"This  is  the  oldest  river  in  the  world,"  went  on  Masters, 
"for  I  don't  think  there's  another  in  the  world  that  has 
flowed  through  so  much  history.  Not  local  history,  but 
universal.  If  I  cast  my  memories  into  any  river,  let  it 
be  the  Seine.  They  will  have  good  company." 

Mortimer  was  impatient. 

"You  think  too  much  of  the  world,  Masters,  and  of  the 
relations  of  men  to  each  other.  You  think  too  much  of 
history." 

"What's  wrong  in  that?" 

"Ill  tell  you,"  said  Mortimer,  with  sudden  inspiration. 
"History  doesn't  exist." 

Ezra  applauded  by  tapping  his  stick  against  the  cobble- 
stones. "The  best  remark  of  the  evening.  Still,  what  is 
that  thing  which  we  call  history?" 

"It  is  a  disease,"  said  Mortimer,  impetuously,  "like 
witches,  fear  of  graveyards,  and  ambition.  Healthy  men 
are  unconscious  of  history." 


THE  OUTSIDER  23 

"And  professors  of  history  are  the  germ-carriers  of  this 
disease?"  asked  Ezra. 

"You've  hit  it,"  said  Mortimer,  "and  I  can  think  of  an 
excellent  case  in  point." 

"This  is  all  talk,"  said  Masters,  sadly,  "you  can  enjoy 
words,  but  not  live  on  them." 

"You  cannot  feed  capons  so,"  suggested  Ezra. 

' '  I  don 't  care  what  you  call  history, ' '  said  Masters.  ' '  But 
I  feel  a  personal  kinship  with  the  sum  total  of  human 
events;  I  feel  as  if  I  was  meant  to  be  part  of  something. 
And  that  feeling  has  been  balked.  That  is  all  I  mean." 

"That  feeling  was  wrong,"  said  Mortimer,  seriously. 
"It  means  you  have  been  educated,  and  to  be  educated 
means  to  be  educated  badly." 

Masters  did  not  answer  because  he  was  sorry  he  had 
spoken  at  all.  He  reflected,  in  some  bitterness,  that  Long 
was  an  American,  to  whom  pride  of  race  and  history  was 
perhaps  unknown,  a  child  in  the  development  of  the  world. 
A  burden  of  failure  lay  upon  his  heart.  How  could  a 
stranger  understand  what  homesickness  was?  How  could 
another  understand  the  long  anguish  of  his  exile  from  his 
own  people.  To  be  English,  as  he  was  conscious  of  it,  was 
a  distinct  thing,  a  sense  greater  than  the  other  five,  and 
master  of  them ;  and  none  but  an  Englishman  could  under- 
stand that.  It  was  not  a  sense  of  superiority  to  other 
people,  but  something  apart  and  peculiar,  with  its  own 
form  and  flavor.  And  this,  which  was  so  singularly  his 
own,  his  flesh  and  blood,  he  had  forever  forfeited.  Why 
speak  of  this  to  others?  Was  not  that  un-English  too? 
Was  it  not  better  to  believe  as  Long  believed,  to  pass  into 
the  great  anonymous,  even  to  his  own  consciousness. 
"Yes,"  he  thought  without  speaking,  "If  I  could.  .But 
I  am  a  disrooted  being." 

Mortimer  was  out  of  sympathy  with  Masters.     At  that 


24  THE  OUTSIDER 

moment  more  than  at  any  other  time  he  could  not  fall  in 
with  the  weakness  of  regret,  with  belief  in  destiny  miscar- 
ried. In  his  heart  life  was  at  the  flood.  He  exulted  in  being, 
independently  of  men  and  events.  He  wanted  to  shout  into 
the  night,  across  the  broad  river  at  the  city  that  cared 
nothing  for  him. 

"Ezra,  j'ai  le  cafard,"  said  Mado,  softly.  "I  want  to 
go  home." 

Masters  spoke  no  more  on  the  way  home,  but  dwelt  on  his 
own  bitterness.  All  the  way  Mado  whispered  continu- 
ously to  Ezra,  and  laughed  with  him.  Mortimer,  like 
Masters,  was  silent,  but  scarce  able  to  contain  the  fulness 
of  his  strength. 

Near  the  Lapin  Cuit  Masters  left  them.  At  the  Hotel 
Picault,  where  the  three  of  them  lived,  Mortimer  left 
Ezra  and  Mado. 

"I'll  see  you  at  the  Hole  tomorrow,  Ezra.  I'm  going 
to  walk." 

He  started  back  along  the  way  they  had  just  come,  down 
the  rue  Boissy  d'Anglas,  into  the  vast  enchanted  square, 
unchanged  and  unchangeable  in  the  moonlight  and  lamp- 
light. His  heart  sang  in  him.  The  rhythm  of  his  foot- 
steps beat  to  a  larger  rhythm  in  his  brain.  He  laughed. 
He  felt  life  in  every  vein,  in  every  vibrant  cell.  He  was 
taller  than  the  obelisk,  he  walked  faster  than  birds  fly. 

And  he  exulted  in  his  loneliness.  "No  one  knows  I  am 
here ;  no  one  knowsithat  I  am  walking  by  this  river,  except 
I,  except  I!" 

He  went  on  with  rapid  footsteps  by  the  right  bank  of 
the  Seine  to  the  first  bridge,  crossed  the  river,  glancing 
at  the  darkness  looming  for  the  Latin  Quarter,  but  unable 
to  stop  because  pf  the  restlessness  in  him. 

He  continued  by  the  left  bank,  leaving  on  his  right  old 
houses  that  bent  towards  him.  Narrow  alleys  opened  there, 


THE  OUTSIDER  25 

leading  into  a  still  and  populous  darkness.  He  felt  the 
life  that  rested  there,  the  multitudinous  hearts  just  then 
at  rest — Paris,  Paris,  Paris ;  like  a  chorus  the  word  rushed 
backwards  and  forwards  through  his  mind. 

He  saw  the  old  towers  of  the  Palais  de  Justice  coming 
out  of  the  darkness  towards  him ;  he  thought  of  the  time — 
many,  many  generations  ago — when  Messieurs  les  Etucli- 
ants  used  to  shut  the  gates  of  the  Quartier  Latin  on  the 
messengers  of  the  King.  He  though  of  the  tumult  and  the 
ambition  that  had  burned  there  from  century  to  century, 
the  daring  and  the  visioning  and  the  hope,  the  passing  of 
thousands  and  thousands  of  lives,  the  laughter,  the  mock- 
ery, the  tenderness — the  river  had  carried  them  all  away — 
Paris!  They  were  all  forgotten,  as  was  right. 

Near  the  Latin  Quarter  he  crossed  the  river  and  the 
island  by  the  two  bridges  and  came  upon  the  Place  de  la 
Greve,  deserted,  like  the  streets.  Thence  he  plunged  into 
the  tortured  closeness  of  the  streets  that  lie  between  the 
rue  de  Eivoli  and  the  Place  de  la  Republique. 

Here  he  simply  walked,  walked.  He  cared  nothing  for 
the  Hotel  de  Ville,  for  the  Statue  of  Liberty  in  the  Place 
de  la  Republique — these  were  things  of  conscious  history — 
the  deeds  of  men  who  aimed  at  something,  and  kept  their 
eye  on  ancestors  and  posterity.  The  Paris  he  loved  was 
the  Paris  of  the  unremembered. 

"I  will  be  forgotten  here  like  the  echo  of  my  footsteps 
in  the  streets,  like  my  shadow  on  the  pavement,  like  to- 
night's moonlight  on  the  walls." 

He  came  at  length  to  the  Place  Pigalle,  now  without 
a  single  reveller.  This  was  the  circle  of  self-conscious 
revelry  in  Paris.  Men  came  thither  from  the  whole  world 
to  forget  the  boredoms  of  their  life.  This  was  not  the 
Paris  he  loved.  He  loved  those  sloping,  choked  alleys  by 
which  he  was  climbing  now  to  the  very  summit  of  the  hill, 


26  THE  OUTSIDER 

to  the  plateau  of  the  Sacre  Coeur,  these  twisted,  illogical 
alleys,  cottages  side  by  side  with  flats,  on  streets  cobble- 
stoned  some  hundreds  of  years  ago,  on  which  no  carriage 
could  venture,  and  even  the  Parisian  taxi  with  trepidation ; 
here  and  there  an  outburst  of  neglected  greenery,  ancient 
hedges,  the  wood  rotting,  and  leaning  alternately  into  the 
street  and  the  abandoned  garden.  Grass  grows  in  these 
streets,  though  no  plague  is  there.  These  streets  are  unlike 
any  others  in  the  world,  thought  Mortimer;  there  is  only 
one  Montmartre,  and  the  heart  of  it  is  here;  beyond  all 
the  self-consciousness  and  charlatanry  of  the  small  poets 
and  futile  painters  and  empty  dramatists,  there  is  still 
Montmartre,  which  generations  have  produced.  These  are 
not  streets,  but  a  sanctuary  with  a  blasphemous  and  ribald 
hierarchy  of  priests.  Blessed  be  their  anonymity! 

He  came  to  wooden  steps  between  impossible  houses, 
that  could  not  breathe — climbing  fifty  and  sixty  at  a  time 
to  new  levels  of  streets.  And  he  came  at  last  to  the  small 
plateau,  with  the  unsightly  Church  rolling  over  it.  On 
this  he  turned  his  back,  and  with  his  hands  on  a  stone 
fence,  stared  over  moonlit  Paris ;  distinguished,  or  thought 
he  distinguished,  the  towers  of  the  Notre  Dame,  the  Tour 
Eiffel,  the  Opera,  the  Invalides,  emerging  obscurely  from 
a  black,  frozen  lava  of  roofs  tangled  and  indistinguishable. 

His  heart  swelled  within  him ;  this  was  the  city  he  loved 
above  all  cities,  his  own  city,  the  mantle  of  his  obscurity. 

"I  am  alone,"  he  whispered  to  himself.  "There  are  all 
the  cities  of  the  world,  swarming  with  peoples — the  great 
cities  with  their  houses,  over  the  whole  world,  London,  and 
Moscow,  and  Pekin  and  New  York,  alive,  spawning  hourly, 
rustling  eternally  with  the  crawling  of  generations;  and 
I  am  here  alone,  alone  with  myself,  unknown  to  man  or  to 
God,  a  life  that  belongs  to  me,  to  me." 


CHAPTER  II 

AT  noon  of  the  next  day  (he  had  come  home  at  four  in 
the  morning  and  risen  at  eleven)  Mortimer  waited  for 
Ezra  in  the  restaurant  known  to  themselves  as  "The 
Hole."  This  was  one  of  '.he  cheapest  restaurants  dis- 
pensing serviettes  without  special  request — an  important 
distinction;  in  the  very  cheapest  they  do  not  give  you 
a  serviette  unless  you  ask  for  it,  and  then  there  is  a 
monstrous  charge  of  sometimes  as  much  as  fifty  centimes. 

There  was  a  fixed  price  at  the  Hole;  for  three  francs 
you  were  entitled  to  soup  or  hors  d'oeuvres,  meat,  vegeta- 
bles, cheese  and  a  fruit;  on  top  of  this  a  small  bottle  of 
red  wine  and  bread  without  limit  (this  was  before  the 
price  of  bread  was  doubled  with  the  removal  of  the  bread 
subsidy).  And  then  there  was  the  tip  which  was  de  ri- 
gueur;  twenty-five  centimes  was  a  gentlemanly  modesty. 
You  could  run  up  a  high  bill,  of  course,  seven  or  eight 
francs;  beyond  this  it  was  difficult  to  go  without  an  ab- 
normal appetite.  You  could  begin  on  oysters,  order  a 
bottle  of  labelled  wine,  take  chicken  for  your  meat,  and  an 
extra  dainty  for  desert.  With  pointless  and  deliberate  ex- 
travagance you  might  even  score  ten  francs.  But  for  ten 
francs  you  could  lunch  with  dignity  at  some  dainty  res- 
taurant on  the  rue  Boissy  d'Anglas,  where  the  waiters  do 
not  address  you  in  the  second  person  singular  and  the 
lady  opposite  you  (if  she  is  one)  does  not  intimate  that 
your  presence  is  for  her  a  distinct  pleasure. 

The  food  at  the  Hole  was  good,  the  service  rapid,  though 
not  distinguished.  Working-girls,  clerks,  porters,  chauf- 
feurs and  aU  kinds  of  base  mechanicals  were  the  principal 

27 


28  THE  OUTSIDER 

clientele,  and  with  them  many  of  the  frequenters  of  the 
Lapin  Cult. 

Ezra  came  at  a  quarter  past  twelve,  for  it  took  fifteen 
minutes  to  reach  the  Hole  from  the  Franco-American 
Bank  where  he  was  then  working.  Mortimer  and  he  oc- 
cupied a  table  in  the  large  rear  room,  and  had  educated 
Francois,  a  dull  Gascon,  to  serve  them  what  was  best  in 
the  day's  menu.  Ezra  came  in  hungry,  so  that  twenty 
minutes  passed  without  conversation. 

"What  time  did  you  get  home  this  morning?" 

"About  four." 

"Have  a  good  time?" 

"Fine.  Made  a  ring  round  Paris.  This  is  the  place  for 
enjoyment  without  expense." 

"Yes.  An  important  consideration.  We'll  go  into  fi- 
nances when  I'm  through  with  this  custard  pie." 

There  was  a  pause  until  he  had  finished  desert.  Then 
he  took  the  place  vacated  by  Mortimer's  side,  and  took 
out  his  pen. 

"How  do  your  finances  stand?" 

"Nobly.  I  touched  nearly  two  hundred  dollars  yester- 
day. I've  got  seventeen  hundred  francs  in  my  pocket — 
this  one,  to  be  exact. ' ' 

"Good.     When  do  you  see  old  Lessar  about  the  work?" 

"This  afternoon.  He's  good  for  three  hundred  a  month." 

"Well,  this  is  how  it  goes,  Mortimer.  Careful  calcu- 
lation, careful  living,  no  high-flying,  plain  fare  and  high 
thinking  and  the  rest  of  it.  Breakfast  one  franc.  That's 
ample — two  cups  of  coffee  and  two  rolls,  which  is  better 
than  most  of  the  working  kids  here  get  for  theirs.  Lunch 
three  francs  twenty-five — call  it  four  francs  with  an  oc- 
casional flutter.  Same  for  supper.  One  france  le  cafe 
in  the  evening.  Total  ten  francs.  That's  three  hundred 
a  month.  Two  hundred  for  the  room.  It's  a  sin  and  a 


THE  OUTSIDER  29 

shame  to  pay  so  much  for  a  room,  but  there  it  is.  That's 
five  hundred.  Laundry,  cigarettes,  toothpaste,  shoe-polish, 
shoe-laces,  soap,  shaving-sticks,  Gillette-blades,  writing- 
paper,  ink,  postage-stamps,  tobacco,  charity,  literature, 
newspapers,  subway  and  surface  car,  occasional  aperitifs  or 
digestifs — two  hundred  francs  a  month  ?  Irreducible  mini- 
mum, seven  hundred.  Anything  omitted?" 

Mortimer  reflected.  "Call  it  seven  hundred  and  fifty. 
Here,  I  have  seventeen  hundred,  seven  hundred  belonging 
to  you.  That 's  a  thousand.  Three  hundred  a  month  from 
Lessar.  I  need  four  hundred  more.  That  means  I'm  two 
months  ahead,  anyway." 

"Of  course,  that  irreducible  minimum  is  for  decent  liv- 
ing, you  know,"  explained  Ezra.  "There  are  not  many 
French  working-girls,  for  instance,  earning  more  than  half 
of  seven-hundred  a  month.  You'd  be  astonished  at  the 
little  you  can  live  on." 

"I  don't  want  to  be  astonished,"  said  Mortimer.  "But 
if  I  have  to,  I'll  survive  it,  I  suppose.  Look,  there's 
Gorman.'* 

Gorman  was  at  the  door  of  the  inner  room,  looking  round 
narrowly. 

"I  don't  like  the  way  he  has,"  said  Mortimer.  "Yet 
I'm  sorry  for  him.  He's  fallen  into  ways  not  properly 
his.  He's  not  a  bad  fellow  really.  Neither  is  his  pal, 
Teddy." 

Gorman  saw  them  from  the  door,  and  came  to  the  table. 

"I  was  looking  for  you  fellers." 

"Sit  down,  Gorman." 

Gorman,  tall,  finely  built,  stood  hesitant. 

"I  ain't  got  much  time.  I  came  to  ask  you  a  favor, 
Long."  He  sat  down.  "I  got  a  deal  on,  an'  I  need  some 
help." 

"What's  on?"  asked  Ezra. 


30  THE  OUTSIDER 

' '  I  can 't  tell  you, ' '  he  answered,  embarrassed.  ' '  'Tain 't 
because  I  don 't  trust  you ;  but  I  just  can 't  tell  you  what 
it  is.  It's  that  kind  of  a  deal." 

He  drummed  with  his  long  slender  fingers  on  the  table 
and  looked  down.  Both  Ezra  and  Mortimer  knew  that 
Gorman  had  business  dealings  that  he  should  not  have  had, 
but  both  of  them  had  a  kind  of  liking  for  the  man.  If 
he  did  wrong  things  they  were  probably  not  wicked  ones. 
He  was  not  <a  sophisticated  wrong-doer,  but  rather  a  good 
fellow,  half-dissatisfied  with  his  own  transactions. 

"What  d'ye  need,  Gorman?"  asked  Mortimer. 

"Five  hundred  francs  till  tomorrow  morning.  Lend  it 
me  right  now  and  I'll  give  you  six  hundred  tomorrow 
morning  before  ten  o'clock." 

Neither  responded  for  a  moment.  Gorman  looked  des- 
perate. 

"I  got  no  money,  boys.  I  can  make  some  right  now; 
not  much,  but  some.  Don't  turn  me  down.  Look  here. 
I'll  give  you  my  papers  to  hold — here's  my  carte  d'identite, 
and  my  Discharge  Certificate.  You  know  that's  worth  a 
darn  sight  more  to  me  than  five  hundred  francs." 

Mortimer  put  his  hand  to  his  pocket-book  slowly. 

"Looka  here,  Long,"  continued  Gorman  eagerly,  "On 
my  word  of  honor,  I'll  give  you  seven  hundred  francs  to- 
morrow morning.  God's  truth,  an'  sure  as  I'm  sitting  here 
right  now. ' ' 

"I  don't  want  your  two  hundred  francs,  Gorman,  and 
I  don't  want  your  papers,"  said  Mortimer,  taking  out 
five  one  hundred  franc  bills.  "And  I  don't  want  to  know 
what  your  deal  is.  I'll  see  you  here  tomorrow  at  the  same 
time.  How  will  that  do  you?" 

Gorman's  face  radiated  gratitude.  "You're  a  damn 
good  feller,  Long,  and  I  won't  forget  this  favor.  I  can't 
tell  you  what  this  deal  is.  But  there  are  others  I've  got 


THE  OUTSIDER  31 

my  eye  on.  There's  money  to  be  made  in  Paris  just  now, 
lots  of  it  for  the  feller  who  knows  how.  And  I'm  be- 
ginning to  know. ' '  He  became  earnest.  ' '  Listen ;  if  I  had 
ten  thousand  francs  just  now  I  could  double  it  in  two 
days.  God's  truth,  Long.  Serious  business." 

"How?"  asked  Mortimer,  curious. 

"You  don't  believe  me?  You'll  see.  What  d'ye  think 
I'm  staying  in  Paris  for?  D'ye  think  I  haven't  got  a 
good  job  in  the  States?  I  had  an  agency  for  one  of  the 
biggest  piano  manufacturers  in  the  east.  Without  a  word 
of  a  lie — I  made  money.  I  can  make  it  again — right  here, 
boys.  There's  fellers  here  making  hundreds  of  thousands 
of  francs,  the  fellers  who  know  what's  doing.  It  took  me 
a  long  time  to  learn — but  I  'm  gonna  be  one  of  'em. ' ' 

His  deadly  earnest  convinced  Mortimer. 

"I'd  like  to  hear  more  about  it,  Gorman." 

"You  will,  Long.  It  isn't  every  feller  who'd  lend  me 
five  hundred  francs  like  that,  tho'  it's  nothing — it  ain't 
a  hundred  dollars.  And  I'll  put  you  on  to  straight  busi- 
ness, Long.  There's  lots  of  crooked  business  going  round 
now — but  I'm  talking  of  straight,  clean  business." 

"Have  you  had  dinner,  Gorman?"  asked  Ezra,  suspi- 
cious. He  knew  that  sudden  money  on  an  empty  stomach 
produces  much  the  same  effect  as  wine  does. 

"No.  I  haven't  got  one  centime  in  my  pocket — not  one 
centime. ' ' 

"Sit  down,  and  have  something." 

"I  can't.  But  thank  you,  just  the  same.  There's  a 
taxi  waiting  for  me." 

"A  taxi?"  asked  Ezra,  violently. 

"Yeh.  I  had  to  come  down  from  the  Place  de  la  Re- 
publique  in  a  hurry,  and  without  a  word  of  a  lie,  I  didn't 
have  thirty  centimes  for  the  subway.  So  I  had  to  take 
a  taxi.  He 's  waiting  outside  to  be  paid. ' ' 


32  THE  OUTSIDER 

"That's  economic  genius,"  said  Ezra,  laughing.  "Sup- 
posing you  hadn  't  found  us,  or  we  had  no  money  ? ' ' 

"I'd  have  kept  that  taxi  till  I  found  someone  to  pay 
for  it,  that's  all.  I  can  always  borrow  twenty  or  thirty 
francs.  I  can't  wait  now,  fellers.  I'll  eat  afterwards. 
I'll  be  here  at  lunch  tomorrow,  Long.  Thank  you,  a 
hundred  times." 

He  went  hurriedly. 

"He'll  be  back  at  noon  tomorrow,"  said  Mortimer. 

"Oh,  sure,"  agreed  Ezra.     "He  isn't  that  kind." 

Mortimer  sat  back  in  the  chair,  staring  across  the  room. 

"We  were  in  the  middle  of  our  finances,"  said  Ezra. 
"Seven  hundred,  we  said,  didn't  we." 

Mortimer  did  not  answer.  Ezra  looked  up  and  saw 
him  staring. 

"What's  the  center  of  attraction?" 

Mortimer  started.  "Excuse  me.  Don't  look,  Ezra. 
Nothing.  There's  somebody  across  there  I've  seen  here 
every  time  I've  come  to  lunch,  I  think." 

"That's  not  surprising.  They  keep  their  clientele  here 
a  long  time." 

"I'm  interested  in  this  part  of  their  clientele.  I've  never 
seen  her  with  anyone.  Have  you  noticed  her?  She's  al- 
ways in  the  same  place.  You  can  look  a  little  later,  care- 
lessly, you  know.  She's  eating  asparagus." 

Ezra's  eyes  went  indifferently  round  the  room,  noted 
the  timid  brunette  with  the  neat  hat  drawn  down  almost 
to  her  eyebrows  over  an  earnest,  childlike  face,  and  passed 
on  with  the  same  absent  look. 

"I  know  whom  you  mean.  That  shy  kid  there.  I've 
noticed  her,  too." 

"She  intrigues  me,  as  they  say  here.  I'm  not  certain 
but  what  she's  noticed  that.  But  she  hasn't  as  much  as 
acknowledged  it." 


THE  OUTSIDER  33 

"Why  don't  you  tell  her  about  it?" 

"I'd  like  to.  I  never  get  a  chance.  She  never  passes 
this  table.  And  she  never  looks  my  way  when  she  goes 
out.  There 's  something  about  her  face  that  interests  me — • 
more  than  interests  me,  if  you  like.  Don't  you  think 
there's  something  good  in  that  face?" 

"It  is  a  good  face,"  said  Ezra.  "Quiet.  "Why  don't 
you  get  to  know  her?" 

"I'd  like  to,"  repeated  Mortimer,  betraying  some  shy- 
ness, "but  I  can't  somehow.  I  haven't  got  that  beastly 
art — like  you." 

"If  that's  a  reproach,"  said  Ezra,  smiling,  "I  bow  to 
your  unsophistication.  But  she  probably  won't  rebuff 
you." 

Mortimer  was  annoyed.  "Don't  be  such  a  galant,  friend 
Ezra.  I  don 't  like  too  much  sophistication.  You  find  that 
kind  of  thing  easy;  you've  got  that  kind  of  savoir-faire 
and  you're  welcome  to  it." 

"Tut-tut.  I  said  she  wouldn't  rebuff  you.  You  know 
as  well  as  I  that  I'd  talk  with  more  assurance  if  I  had 
your  killing  innocence  and  your  infantile  blue  eye." 

Mortimer  kept  his  eyes  intermittently  on  the  girl. 

"And  don't  talk  rubbish." 

"But  it's  a  fact,  Mortimer,"  continued  Ezra,  half- 
ironically,  half  in  earnest.  "I've  overdone  my  savoir- 
faire.  If  I  could  assume  your  looks — and  your  villainous 
French  accent — I'd  be  a  howling  success.  I'm  too  pol- 
ished. You  remember  what  Nietzsche  says.  'Do  you 
want  to  flatter  a  man?  Be  embarrassed  in  his  presence.' 
Ladies  are  the  same — though  you  yourself  are  half  a 
fraud." 

"I  know  it,"  said  Mortimer.  "I'm  just  as  sophisti- 
cated as  you  are.  But  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  can  behave 
otherwise  than  like  a  gentleman  to  a  woman — even  if  she 


34  THE  OUTSIDER 

doesn't  expect  it,  even  if  she  doesn't  want  it.  It's  no 
use  of  my  trying." 

"Thank  you  for  the  implication,"  said  Ezra,  quite  un- 
ruffled. "Long  may  you  preserve  your  virgin  bashfulness. 
I  acknowledge  the  difference  between  us,  but  only  beg  to 
point  out  that  in  effect  you're  better  off — from  the  sophisti- 
cated point  of  view.  I  can  think  of  five  ladies  you've  in- 
terested to  every  one  that  pretended  that  I  interested  her. ' ' 

"I  don't  believe  you,"  said  Mortimer,  half  sincerely. 

"A  fact,"  said  Ezra.  "I  bet  you  a  hundred  francs  to 
one  this  particular  lady  already  adores  you." 

"You're  a  fool,"  said  Mortimer,  angry  now.  "She 
doesn't  know  I'm  here." 

"So  much  so  does  she  know,"  answered  Ezra,  undis- 
turbed, "that  she  would  be  quite  pleased  if  I  went  over 
and  told  her  you  wanted  to  make  her  acquaintance." 

"Ezra,"  said  Mortimer,  still  angry,  "you  mustn't  dare 
to  do  such  a  thing." 

"Don't  be  absurd,  man.  I  tell  you  she'd  be  delighted. 
And  I'll  do  it,  unless  you  do." 

"You'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort.  I  mean  that.  I  won't 
have  you  go  over  and  talk  to  her  that  way." 

Ezra  laughed  heartily.     "You're  a  first-class  cuckoo." 

"I  know  it,"  said  Mortimer,  his  annoyance  increasing. 
"But  that's  my  business.  I'll  get  to  know  her  in  my  own 
way  and  in  my  own  good  time. ' ' 

"But  she's  finishing  now.  She's  paying  Frangois.  I 
don't  think  the  poor  kid's  got  very  much  money." 

"No,"  said  Mortimer.  "I've  seldom  seen  her  hand 
Frangois  anything  more  than  a  five-franc  note." 

Ezra  was  astonished  at  the  betrayal. 

"But  I  wonder  why  she  eats  here,  just  the  same.  It 
means  a  hundred  francs  a  month  for  lunches.  I  wonder 


THE  OUTSIDER  35 

why  she  doesn't  take  her  lunch  at  home.  She's  going 
now.  Let's  go  too.  Wait  till  she's  at  the  door." 

The  girl  was  counting  the  change  and  seemed  to  be 
hesitating  as  to  the  coppers  she  would  leave  on  the  table. 
While  she  was  drawing  on  her  mantle  and  adjusting  her 
hat,  Ezra  caught  Francois  as  he  passed  and  paid  him 
quickly.  There  was  no  calculation — two  lunches  at  three 
francs  and  a  tip  of  fifty  centimes  for  both.  The  girl 
passed  along  the  other  side  of  the  room,  and  went  out 
without  looking  round.  Ezra  noticed  her  profile,  simple 
and  very  childlike.  She  held  an  old  bag  in  her  right  hand, 
against  her  breast. 

Both  men  went  out  as  soon  as  she  was  through  the  door. 
In  the  street  she  turned  left,  walking  slowly,  Ezra  and 
Mortimer  a  dozen  steps  behind  her. 

"The  first  thing  that  attracted  me  about  her,"  said 
Mortimer,  "was  the  way  she  eats.  Do  you  take  notice 
of  the  way  people  eat?" 

"Not  unless  I  happen  to  be  nervous." 

"I  always  notice  people  eating.  As  a  rule  I  can't  stand 
the  way  the  Frenchman  eats — or  the  Frenchwoman. ' ' 

"They  are  rather  enthusiastic  about  the  soup,"  admit- 
ted Ezra,  "especially  on  the  trains,  in  the  dining  cars." 

"It  isn't  that,"  explained  Mortimer.  "The  women 
here  eat  with  a  kind  of  cocky  self-certainty,  as  though 
people  were  watching  and  they  were  asserting  their  rights 
defiantly.  The  way  they  munch  "now-then-what-are-you~ 
going-to-do-about-it  sort  of  munching — and  take  an  un- 
abashed look  round  the  restaurant — and  then  firmly  and 
decidedly  cut  off  another  piece." 

"I  haven't  noticed  that,"  said  Ezra. 

"And  above  all,"  continued  Mortimer,  "every  French- 
woman that  sits  down  to  table  takes  the  drinking  glass  and 
firmly  but  knowingly  wipes  it  with  her  napkin — cleans  it 


36  THE  OUTSIDER 

deliberately  and  ostentatiously.  I  don't  mind,  but  it's 
the  way  they  do  it — to  let  you  know  they're  wise  birds 
and  don't  trust  the  hired  help." 

They  had  been  walking  faster  than  the  girl  ahead,  and 
now  they  were  abreast  of  her — she  near  the  wall,  Ezra 
next  to  her.  Before  Mortimer  knew  it  Ezra  had  raised 
his  hat,  and  said  politely,  "Bonjour,  Mademoiselle." 

She  looked  up,  smiled  timidly,  and  answered,  "Bonjour 
Monsieur." 

"My  friend  here,"  said  Ezra  shamelessly,  "wishes  to 
make  your  acquaintance.  He  hadn't  the  courage  to  tell 
you  so.  It  needs  less  courage  on  my  part  to  speak  for 
him.  Monsieur  Mortimer,  Mademoiselle ? " 

"Carmen,"  she  answered,  offering  her  hand. 

Mortimer  changed  places  with  Ezra  and  took  the  hand. 

"I  assure  you,  Mademoiselle  Carmen,  I  did  not  ask 
my  friend  to  do  this.  But  now  it  is  done  I  am  very  glad. 
I  trust  you  will  come  and  take  coffee  with  us." 

"I  shall  be  very  happy,"  she  answered,  stammering  a 
little. 

Her  diffidence  pleased  Mortimer  infinitely.  "All  the 
same,  Ezra,  I  think  you're  no  gentleman." 

"Right,"  answered  Ezra.  "Did  you  ever  hear  me  mak- 
ing extravagant  claims?" 

"But  you  will  come  and  take  coffee  with  both  of  us  just 
now." 

"Surely.  I'll  help  you  over  the  first  difficult  quart 
d'heure.  You  are  ungrateful,  Mortimer,  but  my  philan- 
thropy is  purer  than  all  that.  We'd  better  speak  French 
for  the  lady's  sake.  You  will  pardon  my  friend's  oppres- 
sive timidity.  He  is  American." 

"One  sees  that,"  she  said,  looking  at  Mortimer  hastily. 

"You  see,  she  has  been  aware  of  your  existence,"  said 
Ezra. 


THE  OUTSIDER  37 

Mortimer  was  studying  with  genuine  pleasure  the  girl's 
face.  Academic  beauty  it  had  none ;  the  features  were  com- 
monplace, but  the  expression  of  the  face,  he  considered, 
was  that  of  an  intense  kindliness,  a  womanly  goodness. 
There  was  even  more  expressed  in  the  half-timid,  half- 
composed  outlines,  a  good  deal  of  patience,  self-repression, 
a  capacity  for  suffering — and  a  history  of  these  faculties 
exercised  for  the  sake  of  others.  All  this  he  thought  he 
saw,  and  was  a  little  sceptical  of  himself  for  seeing  so  much. 

They  went  for  coffee  to  a  modest  two-roomed  den  in  the 
rue  Boissy  d'Anglas.  Before  and  after  mealtimes  these 
places  are  crowded,  but  now  it  was  rather  late,  for  they 
had  lingered  over  lunch.  In  the  dark  inner  room  they 
found  a  corner,  and  there  Mortimer  placed  himself  so 
that  he  could  watch  Carmen  with  a  minimum  of  self- 
betrayal. 

"You  are  Parisienne,  Miss  Carmen?"  asked  Mortimer. 

"Only  since  a  year.  I  come  from  le  Havre,"  she  an- 
swered, and  then  Ezra  detected  the  soft-tongued  "r"  and 
the  flattening  of  the  dental  consonants.  It  was  a  charming 
provincialism,  and  he  was  sorry  that  Mortimer  probably 
could  not  detect  it.  Mortimer,  however,  did  find  some- 
thing distinctly  pleasant  in  her  voice,  a  vibrant  physical 
quality,  like  the  fulness  of  the  g  string  of  a  violin. 

"And  you  have  been  coming  long  to  the  Hole,"  asked 
Ezra;  then,  as  she  looked  blank,  Mortimer  and  he  laughed 
suddenly.  "We  call  that  restaurant  the  Hole." 

"Why?  It  is  a  very  good  restaurant.  One  is  well 
there." 

"Our  immodest  tastes  stand  rebuked,  Mortimer.  It 
isn't  a  bad  restaurant  really,  Miss  Carmen.  How  long  have 
you  been  coming  there." 

"Oh,  weeks." 

"You've  noticed  us,  haven't  you?" 


38  THE  OUTSIDER 

"Oh  yes,  quite  often,  and  your  lady  friend  as  well." 

"Oh."  Ezra  suddenly  put  two  and  two  together. 
' { You  're  called  Carmen ! "  he  repeated.  ' '  Bless  our  souls. ' ' 
But  he  did  not  explain  to  Mortimer. 

Carmen  asked  for  coffee,  Mortimer  and  Ezra  for  Bene- 
dictines. Ezra  took  his  drink  quickly  and  went  soon,  not 
to  be  late  at  the  Bank.  Left  together,  Mortimer  and  Car- 
men were  a  little  shy. 

"I  have  been  wanting  to  make  your  acquaintance  for 
some  time,  Miss  Carmen — as  my  friend  told  you.  For 
quite  a  long  time,  in  fact." 

' '  Well,  I  also, ' '  she  confessed.     * '  But  I  would  not  do  it. ' ' 

"Then  why  didn't  you?" 

She  fumbled  with  her  fingers.  "Eh  "bien,  I  didn't  want 
you  to  think " 

"To  think  what?" 

"To  think  that  I  was  a  woman  who  made  men's  acquain- 
tance like  that."  She  said  this  with  difficulty  and  took 
to  twisting  her  hands  together,  then  asked,  "Well,  and 
why  didn't  you  come  and  speak  to  me." 

"I  was  timid,"  confessed  Mortimer. 

"And  why  did  you  tell  Mado  last  night  that  you  did 
not  want  to  make  my  acquaintance." 

Mortimer  jumped  in  his  seat.     "Oh!     Is  that  it?" 

"What?" 

"How  long  do  you  know  Mado?" 

"Not  long.  I  saw  her  coming  here  with  Monsieur  Ezra. 
Do  you  know,  I  made  her  acquaintance  because  I  wanted 
to  know  you." 

It  was  curious  to  hear  this  frank  confession,  and  mark 
at  the  same  time  the  shyness  shown  in  her  face  and  in  her 
uncomfortable  restlessness.  She  seemed  bold  by  excess  of 
timidity.  Mortimer  was  touched  to  the  quick. 


THE  OUTSIDER  39 

"Well,  vottd,"  he  said.  "We  know  each  other  at  last. 
I  trust  you  are  not  sorry  now." 

"Oh  no,"  she  said  in  a  very  certain  voice,  and  looked 
him  full  in  the  face  and  laughed  for  the  first  time.  Her 
smile  was  a  sudden  warmth  and  friendliness.  Mortimer 
could  not  help  putting  his  hand  on  her  arm. 

"Why  did  you  not  come  with  your  friend  in  the  evening, 
to  the  Lapin  Cuit.  You  know  how  glad  I  would  have  been 
to  see  you  there." 

"I  didn't  know  that  at  all.  Beside,  there  were  other 
reasons. ' ' 

Mortimer  decided  hastily  that  these  reasons  referred  to  a 
man,  and  then  was  annoyed  with  himself,  and  labelled  his 
suspicion  as  bad  French. 

"But  will  you  come  now."  he  asked. 

"Oh,  surely,  if  you  wish  me  to." 

"Certainly  I  wish  it." 

"And  why  didn't  you  come  before?"  he  persisted,  the 
impulse  of  curiosity  asserting  itself. 

"There  were  reasons  I  shall  tell  you  later." 

"No,  tell  me  now." 

"Well,  if  you  wish  to  know at  the  Lapin  Cuit  they 

would  have  noticed  that I  wanted to  know  you." 

"Oh,  and  at  the  restaurant?" 

"The  restaurant  is  big,  and  anyone  comes  there,  only 
to  eat.  One  comes  to  the  cafe  for  the  people  also.  But  I 
shall  come  to  the  Lapin  Cuit  now,  and  not  any  more  to  the 
restaurant."  She  caught  herself  up  on  the  last  words. 

"And  why  not  to  the  restaurant?" 

"It  is  too  far  from  my  work."  The  excuse  was  in- 
vented and  delivered  without  conviction.  But  Mortimer 
understood ;  the  three  francs  twenty-five,  as  he  had  observed 
to  Ezra,  was  too  much  for  a  daily  lunch.  He  wondered 


40  THE  OUTSIDER 

now  whether  she  had  come  to  the  restaurant  for  him  only. 
He  was  eager  to  know. 

"So  why  did  you  come  every  day?" 

"Eh  bien to  see  you." 

"And  where  will  you  go  for  lunch  now." 

"We  have  a  lunch  prepared  in  the  atelier.  I  shall  stay 
there  at  noon." 

In  brief  silence  Mortimer  wondered  what  Carmen 
earned,  and  how  she  spent  it.  He  had  some  notion  of  the 
astonishing  economies,  the  vigilance  practiced  by  French 
working  people,  but  he  had  never  met  with  the  actuality. 

"What  do  you  work  at,  Miss  Carmen?" 

"In  a  toy  factory.     I  make  teddy  bears." 

"Is  it  hard  work?" 

"Oh,  out,"  very  decided,  and  a  sigh,  and  a  laugh.  "Not 
so  hard,  though.  The  dogs  are  just  as  hard,  and  the  dolls. 
All  the  stuffed,  things,  you  know.  It's  the  sewing  that's 
hard." 

"Sewing  of  what?" 

"Sewing  the  ears  on,  and  the  snouts  and  things.  You 
do  it  with  a  great  big  heavy  needle,  that  hurts  the  hands. 
But  it  isn't  so  bad." 

Mortimer  glanced  at  her  hands,  and  she  snatched  them 
away  under  the  table.  But  he  had  seen  them  distinctly. 
They  were  certainly  not  pretty  hands ;  clumsily  constructed, 
red,  the  fingers  with  shallow  nails;  at  the  joints  of  the 
fingers  there  was  no  soft  crease  of  skin,  so  that  the  fingers 
looked  swollen.  Carmen  looked  down. 

"My  hands  are  very  ugly,"  she  said,  distressed. 

"I  haven't  seen  yet,"  answered  Mortimer,  smiling  at 
her  his  own  reply.  It  was  characteristic  of  him  that  he 
could  not  make  an  insincere  compliment;  had  he  said  to 
Carmen,  "Au  contraire,  your  hands  are  charming,"  he 
would  have  felt  a  fool,  and,  he  believed,  Carmen  would 


THE  OUTSIDER  41 

have  considered  him  a  liar.  Au  fond,  in  his  opinion,  all 
people,  women  included,  knew  whether  or  not  they  were 
beautiful — and  false  compliments  were  a  double  insult. 
At  the  same  time  it  was  uncomfortable  to  avoid  the  truth. 
Now,  having  avoided  Carmen's  hands,  he  wanted  to  make 
a  sincere  compliment  on  her  face;  he  could  not  find  the 
words,  but,  unknown  to  himself,  his  eyes  were  making  it, 
and  Carmen  was  pleased  with  it ;  all  the  more  pleased  with 
it  (although  she  hardly  understood  this)  because  he  had 
refused  flatly  to  compliment  her  on  her  hands.  The  up- 
shot was  that  Mortimer  understood  that  he  had  pleased 
her,  and  they  smiled  at  each  other.  In  this  smile  they 
seemed  to  say,  ""We  are  getting  to  know  each  other,  and 
to  like  each  other." 

"Monsieur  Mortimer  (of  course  she  pronounced  it  More- 
tee-mwre)  I  cannot  stay  any  longer.  I  must  return  to 
the  atelier  now.  I  shall  be  late." 

"Must  you  go  back?"  he  said,  disappointed.  The  ex- 
changed smile  had  gone  like  lightning  through  him.  He 
wanted  her  to  stay. 

"I  must  go.  I  confess  I  go  unwillingly — very  un- 
willingly." 

Her  soft  voice  paused  over  the  words ;  it  was  a  pleasure 
to  her  to  make  this  confession. 

"Is  your  atelier  far?" 

"It  is  near  the  Hotel  de  Ville.  I  must  take  the  subway 
now  to  get  there  in  time." 

"Will  you  get  into  trouble  if  you  don't  go  back?" 

"Oh  no,  but  I  will  lose  so  much  money." 

He  would  have  liked  to  say  that  that  did  not  matter, 
but  dared  not  yet.  He  wanted  to  spend  the  whole  after- 
noon with  her. 

"Well,  I  will  conduct  you  to  the  Metro,  Miss  Carmen." 

"Thank  you." 


42  THE  OUTSIDER 

He  went  with  her  as  far  as  the  subway  in  the  Place  de 
la  Concorde. 

"This  evening  you  will  be  at  the  Lapin  Cuit,  n'est-ce- 
pas,  Miss  Carmen?" 

"Yes,  I  will  come  at  eight  o'clock." 

"Good  bye,  Miss  Carmen." 

"Good  bye,  Monsieur  More-tee-maire." 

He  watched  her  go  down  to  the  ticket  window,  and 
turned  away.  His  heart  was  joyous  within  him.  What 
a  fine  little  girl!  How  simple  and  sincere  she  seemed  to 
him.  She  pleased  him  by  her  lack  of  ease.  She  pleased 
him  by  her  unabashed  liking  for  him  (he  had  a  frank 
weakness  for  people  that  liked  him).  He  thought  of  her 
friendly  face;  he  thought  above  all  of  that  sudden  smile, 
and  felt  again  the  quick  pleasure  it  had  given  him.  "I 
like  the  kid, ' '  he  said  to  himself. 

He  went  up  to  his  room  on  the  first  floor  of  the  Hotel 
Picault,  and  sat  down  to  read.  But  he  could  not.  In- 
stead he  stood  at  one  of  the  windows  and  stared  into  the 
rue  St.  Honore  and  at  the  dignified  building  opposite;  be- 
hind the  stately  door,  he  knew  there  was  a  noble  courtyard, 
and  people  of  wealth  and  position  slept  on  all  four  sides 
of  it.  Further  up,  in  the  direction  of  Etoile,  that  is,  was 
the  princely  house  of  Rothschild,  with  gardens  stretching 
through  all  the  way  to  the  Champs  Elysees,  and  a  little 
further  on  was  the  Palace  of  the  President  of  the  French 
Republic,  with  its  pretty  wooden  guards  parading  up  and 
down.  But  that  was  all  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street, 
for  his  own  side  was  merely  respectable,  shops  and  small 
hotels  and  apartments. 

He  liked  his  room.  It  was  large,  double-windowed,  and 
well  furnished.  The  bed  stood  in  a  recess,  and  the  wash- 
stand  in  a  small  cubicle  which  was  really  a  continuation 
of  the  recess.  The  window  curtains  were  handsome  and 


THE  OUTSIDER  43 

clean,  and  heavy  crimson  portieres  were  drawn  on  either 
side.  There  was  a  massive  arm-chair  on  either  side  of  the 
fireplace.  In  the  middle  of  his  room  was  a  round  table 
with  his  typewriter.  By  the  free  wall  was  another  table 
and  on  that  a  special  book-case  he  had  had  constructed  in 
such  wise  that  a  wooden  side  could  be  Slipped  in,  converting 
it  into  a  box,  a  convenience  for  a  travelling  man  who  could 
not  stir  without  books. 

On  those  shelves  were  the  few  books  he  had  gathered  in 
Europe.  There  was  naturally  no  system  about  his  col- 
lection; three  novels  of  Compton  Mackenzie,  Fleurs  du 
Mai,  Koenigsmarck,  the  poems  of  Verlaine,  a  dozen  cheap 
French  classics,  Dulac's  illustrations  to  Sinbad  le  Marin, 
Wundt's  Principles  of  Folk  Psychology,  three  volumes  of 
de  Maupassant,  and  others  of  less  importance. 

It  was  a  pleasant  room  to  lounge  in,  and  to  work  in. 
On  chilly  evenings — the  leaves  were  already  fluttering 
about  on  the  pavements  of  the  boulevards — he  made  himself 
a  wood-fire  on  the  French  system,  two  or  three  logs  of 
fire  lying  across  iron  supports.  But  this  was  a  mild  day; 
the  sun  came  in  aslant  through  the  window  and  the  room 
looked  warm  where  the  light  fell. 

He  could  not  settle  to  any  reading  or  writing,  so  he  sat 
for  a  while  by  the  fireplace,  and  stirred  the  ashes  still 
there,  and  broke  dusty  chips  off  the  dried  and  half  burned 
logs,  and  mused  on  Carmen.  His  first  keener  pleasure 
having  passed  away,  he  felt  vaguely  pleased  with  life  in 
general,  and  with  his  own  life.  He  felt  himself  already 
settled  in  Paris,  free  to  wander,  to  come  and  go,  to  browse 
in  the  kindly  indifference  of  the  city.  He  looked  forward 
to  the  winter,  the  warmth  of  the  room,  the  fire,  his  books ; 
outside,  the  streets,  the  people,  the  twilight  on  the  city, 
the  turmoil  and  the  gaiety. 

He  woke  from  his  meditation  with  a  sigh,  and  turned 


44  THE  OUTSIDER 

to  a  bundle  of  manuscript  that  lay  on  the  table,  waiting 
to  be  typed — his  first  job  in  Paris,  the  gift  of  a  stray  ac- 
quaintance, an  old  Englishman  by  the  name  of  Lessar. 
The  machine  began  to  tap  spasmodically,  gathered  speed 
into  a  rain  of  sounds. 

He  hummed  to  himself  as  he  worked,  and  at  moments 
threw  back  his  head  and  laughed  for  no  reason  at  all. 


CHAPTER  III 

HE  found  Carmen  waiting  for  him  outside  the  Lap  in 
Cuit.  They  saw  each  other  a  long  way  off,  and  both 
smiled  until  they  met,  and  smiled  still  more  as  they  shook 
hands. 

* '  We  are  already  like  old  friends, ' '  said  Mortimer. 

"My  friend  Mado  is  going  to  make  fun  of  me,"  she  told 
him.  "She  is  inside  with  Monsieur  Ezra." 

' '  Let  her,  "said  Mortimer.    ' '  Let 's  go  in. " 

She  hung  back.  "Let's  go  to  another  cafe,"  she  sug- 
gested shyly. 

* ' No,  no,  no, ' '  said  Mortimer  vigorously.    ' '  Allans. ' ' 

He  swung  the  door  open  and  let  her  in  first.  Ezra  and 
Mado  were  there,  with  old  Cray.  Mortimer  saw  at  once 
that  the  last  was  regally  drunk,  his  silver-grey  hair  dis- 
hevelled, and  his  face  red.  His  lips  were  twitching  as 
if  with  thirst. 

"How  d'ye  do,  Long?"  The  old  man  got  up  and  bowed 
unsteadily.  "Charming  romance,  I  hear."  With  this  he 
collapsed  and  tried  to  drain  something  from  an  empty 
glass. 

The  two  girls  sat  together,  Carmen  radiant  and  half- 
frightened,  Mado  with  a  mocking  smile  on  her  lips. 

"Well,  old  girl,  you've  got  him!"  she  whispered. 

"You  bet — I've  got  him,  and  I  won't  let  go,"  was  the 
whispered  reply.  Ezra  caught  the  words  and  smiled  too. 

"Your  little  friend  is  very  much  in  love  with  you,  Mort- 
imer, in  advance.  Has  been  for  some  time. ' ' 

"I'm  not  indifferent  to  her,"  confessed  Mortimer,  "and 
she  may  know  it.  Come  and  sit  next  to  me,  Miss  Carmen. 
Never  mind  the  nonsense  of  Mado.  She  is  not  serieuse." 

45 


46  THE  OUTSIDER 

Carmen  changed  over  and  sat  next  to  Mortimer,  but 
she  was  still  diffident. 

"I'm  afraid  you're  rather  shy,  Miss  Carmen." 

"Careful,  Mortimer.  That  doesn't  mean  anything. 
It's  like  your  own  gentlemanly  embarrassment.  It  covers 
— what  you  know." 

"No  matter,"  said  Mortimer.  His  spirits  were  run- 
ning high.  "I  don't  want  her  to  be  a  lady.  I  only  want 
her  to  behave  like  one.  Mademoiselle  Carmen,  I  am  rav- 
ished to  have  made  your  acquaintance.  In  celebration 
what  will  you  drink?" 

"Benedictine,"  said  Cray,  suddenly  lifting  his  head. 

"Coffee  plain,"  said  Carmen. 

Mado  was  hilarious.  "Do  you  call  that  celebration? 
Cointreau!  No  coffee,  Monsieur  Mortimer. " 

"Certainly  not,"  said  Mortimer.  "Cafe  afterwards, 
if  you  like,  chez-nous —  '  the  last  he  added  in  sudden  in- 
spiration. His  spirits  went  higher;  his  eyes  sparkled. 

"I  mustn't,"  said  Carmen.     "I  shall  be  drunk." 

"Pooh,  pooh,  one  Cointreau.    Marius!" 

Marius  came  through  the  swing-door  sucking  moisture 
generously  from  his  moustache. 

"Who's  here?"  asked  Mortimer,  standing  up  and  laugh- 
ing. He  looked  round — Renee  and  Edmond  were  opposite, 
the  latter  making  the  best  of  Master's  absence,  and  talking 
earnestly  with  Renee;  the  yellow-faced  girl,  without  the 
baby  this  time;  a  few  others  he  did  not  know. 

"Marius — take  drinks  to  Edmond  and  Renee  and  their 
friend  and  five  Cointreaux  to  this  table.  Quick!  You'll 
drink  at  least  one  Cointreau  this  evening,  to  celebrate " 

"You've  said  that  before,"  interrupted  Ezra. 

"To  celebrate,"  said  Mortimer,  more  loudly,  and  smil- 
ing at  Carmen,  "to  celebrate  our  mutual  independence." 


THE  OUTSIDER  47 

"She  doesn't  understand  you  Mortimer,"  said  Ezra. 
"Expatiate,  clarify,  make  it  clear  to  simple  intellects." 

Marius  brought  the  glasses  and  filled  them — as  waiters 
do  in  Paris,  that  is,  with  miraculous  exactitude.  The  liquid 
brimmed  like  silver  to  the  rim  of  the  glass — a  tiny  drop 
more  and  it  would  have  run  over. 

"To  celebrate,"  began  Mortimer  again,  and  lifted  his 
glass  joyously,  "to  celebrate  the  proper  and  appropriate 
addition  to  my  demobilisation ;  my  discharge  freed  me  from 
all  national  obligations.  Carmen  this  evening  shall  free  me 
from  all  social  obligations." 

"I  shall  pronounce  the  benediction,"  said  Ezra  suddenly. 
"Stand  up!" 

Mortimer  felt  restraint  slipping  from  him.  Laughing 
without  reason  he  stood  up,  and  made  Carmen  stand  up 
with  him. 

"Before  we  drink,"  said  Ezra  solemnly,  "you  shall  repeat 
and  confirm;  agree  and  promise.  Carmen,  you  have  been 
chosen  by  my  young  friend,  and  you  have  chosen  him.  You 
must  understand  before  you  accede." 

"Oui,  Monsieur  Ezra." 

"You  shall  promise  to  observe  no  promise.  You  shall 
undertake  the  obligation  to  accept  no  obligation ;  you  shall 
refuse  in  principle  to  love,  honor  or  obey.  Do  you 
promise  ? ' ' 

"I  do,"  said  Mortimer. 

"Oui,  Monsieur  Ezra." 

"You  shall  further  take  to  heart  the  responsibility  of 
irresponsibility,  which  is  no  light  one.  You  shall  not  lie 
about  your  emotions;  you  shall  not  bore  each  other;  you 
shall  not  believe  that  at  any  time  you  are  anything  more 
to  each  other  because  of  anything  in  the  past.  Do  you 
promise  ? ' ' 

"I  promise,"  said  Mortimer. 


48  THE  OUTSIDER 

"I  also,"  said  Carmen. 

"Further,"  went  on  Ezra,  rising  on  the  wings  of  enthusi- 
asm, "if  I  interpret  the  great  occasion  aright,  you  shall 
meet  each  day  as  for  the  first  time,  as  free  as  before  you 
spoke  to  each  other,  and  therefore  you  shall  never  know 
the  ghastly  phrase,  'to  be  true  to  each  other.'  You  shall 
ask  no  accounts  and  render  none,  no  questions  and  answer 
none " 

"No  loans  and  tender  none,"  stuttered  old  Cray,  and 
laughed  and  hiccoughed. 

"You  shall  love  by  a  series  of  accidents,"  sang  Ezra, 
"or  not  at  all,  and  he  or  she  that  suspects  that  the  other 
no  longer  loves,  shall  be  the  first  to  go.  Do  you  under- 
stand, Mortimer?" 

"Yes." 

' '  Do  you  understand,  Carmen  ? ' ' 

"Oui,  Monsieur  Ezra." 

"Then,"  said  Ezra,  solemn  again,  "in  the  presence  of 
this  assembly  and  calling  the  Great  Spirit  of  Nothingness 
to  witness,  I  hereby  pronounce  you  man  and — woman. ' ' 

"Bravo,"  stuttered  Cray,  standing  up  as  the  others  sat 
down.  He  held  himself  erect,  racked  his  brain,  and  made 
oratorical  gestures,  then  suddenly  sat  down.  "Bravo,"  he 
repeated  foolishly. 

The  others  shouted  with  laughter. 

"Bravo,  Cray;  your  comment  was  illuminating,"  said 
Ezra. 

Cray  grinned.  "I  thought  I'd  be  able  to  think  of  some- 
thing funny  in  time."  He  shook  his  head.  "Dangerous 
thing,  impromptu  speaking."  He  hiccoughed.  "But  I 
wish  I  had  your  genius,  Rich." 

"I  wish  I  had  your  sensations,"  said  Ezra. 

Carmen  sat  closer  to  Mortimer. 


THE  OUTSIDER  40 

"Your  friend  is  clever,  n'est-ce-pasf"  But  her  eyes  were 
all  for  Mortimer. 

Mortimer's  arm  was  around  her. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  watching  her  with  close  delight. 

Mado  looked  with  envy  at  Carmen,  and  in  emulation 
leaned  to  Ezra.  Silence  fell  on  the  group  for  a  while. 
Then  they  whispered  among  themselves. 

"Je  t'aime,  Mortimer,"  said  Carmen,  softly. 

"I  know  it,"  he  whispered,  smiling  in  reply.  "Pour  un 
jour,  un  mois,  a  jamaisf" 

"Oui,  Mortimer." 

The  same  exchange  was  passing  between  Mado  and  Ezra. 
Cray  looked  gloomily  at  one,  then  the  other.  They  did 
not  notice  him.  He  rose  heroically.  "Gobbleshyou, "  he 
said  ironically.  "Goodni'." 

He  made  a  stern  effort  to  walk  out  straight,  and  tried 
to  have  it  that  he  touched  the  tables  as  he  passed  them  not 
for  support,  but  in  a  sort  of  sprightliness.  At  the  door  he 
turned  round.  "You  only  half  believe  yourshelves, "  he 
said,  drunk  and  cynical.  "Was  different  when  I  was 
young.  Can't  make  believe  at  my  age."  He  shambled 
out,  pleased  with  his  insight,  but  the  young  men  had  not 
heard  him. 

"Carmen,"  said  Mortimer  softly.  "Have  you  under- 
stood what  Ezra  was  talking  about?" 

"Oui,  oui,  Mortimer,"  she  answered,  understanding 
only  that  he  wanted  her  to  have  understood. 

He  did  not  believe  she  had  understood,  but  he  consoled 
himself,  thinking  that  it  was  not  necessary  for  her  to 
understand.  Her  life  was  itself  the  spirit  that  he  sought. 

He  fell  into  meditation  on  the  unconscious  consistency 
of  her  life  and  on  his  own  conscious  efforts  to  amend  a  life 
spoilt  by  others.  He  had  begun  badly.  In  his  childhood 
they  had  let  him  read  the  lives  of  "great  men,"  in  the 


50  THE  OUTSIDER 

hope  that  he  would  simulate  them.  He  had  been  taught 
with  murderous  insistence  that  anybody  with  sufficient  ef- 
fort could  achieve  anything.  They  had  encouraged  in  him 
a  secret  childish  conviction  that  he  too  could  be  a  "great 
man,"  but  nobody  knew  how  seriously  he  had  believed  it. 
Other  children  perhaps  read  and  regard  the  lives  of  great 
men  as  they  read  and  regard  fables  and  fairy  tales,  find 
in  them  a  vague  stimulation,  but  they  are  detached  from 
them.  These  are  to  them  the  things  one  reads  about.  But 
he  had  taken  hold  of  those  lives  and  made  them  his  own. 
He  too  was  going  to  astound  the  world.  He  too  would 
create  cities  in  desert  places. 

The  anguish  of  disillusionment  came  in  his  very  early 
manhood.  Now,  remembering  the  tortures  through  which 
he  had  passed  in  the  process  of  re-education,  he  cursed  with 
hearty  simplicity  the  stupidity  of  his  parents  and  relatives 
and  friends.  What  infernal  right  had  they  had  to  expect 
him  to  be  great  ?  "What  right  to  be  disappointed  if  he  did 
not  turn  out  so  ?  Why  had  they  tampered  with  his  natural 
outlook?  He  was  not  predisposed  to  vanity;  the  belief  in 
his  eventual  greatness  had  been  acquired  by  persistent 
training.  How  bitter  had  been  the  undoing  of  that  belief 
— and,  more  than  that,  how  cruel  had  been  the  path  to 
indifference  towards  the  opinion  of  his  relatives  and  friends ! 
It  had  been  easier  to  reconcile  himself  to  his  obscurity  than 
to  conjure  up  (as  he  foolishly  did)  the  disappointment  of 
his  friends.  In  the  end  he  achieved  the  second  by  realising 
that  they  did  not  in  reality  care;  that  their  interest  in 
him,  and  their  disappointment,  were  largely  conversa- 
tional. 

Having  realised  this,  he  had  cast  them  off  from  him. 
They  had  fooled  him.  For  their  spiritual  convenience,  for 
the  sake  of  sustaining  their  own  foolish  and  shallow  in- 
terest, they  had  stretched  him  on  the  rack,  and  tried  to 


THE  OUTSIDER  51 

mould  him  regardless  of  his  own  will.  And  they  did 
not  really  care.  In  the  end  he  found  himself  completely. 
Their  interest  was  essentially  meaningless;  it  need  not 
trouble  him  a  whit. 

But  Carmen,  he  reflected,  was  different.  She  was  by 
nature  what  he  had  become  at  last  by  effort.  She  had 
not  been  cursed  with  an  instilled  ambition  and  belief  in 
a  destiny.  She  had  never  asked  more  than  the  obscurity 
she  had  always  lived  in.  She  could  pass  out  of  life  and 
leave  not  one  regret  behind  her.  Surely  it  was  that  which, 
consciously  or  not,  made  her  life  serene.  So  he  meditated, 
not  aware  of  her  thoughts. 

Ezra,  too,  had  fallen  into  thought.  The  cafe  had  become 
quiet,  and  the  quiet  pleased  both  men.  Mortimer  spoke 
a  word  now  and  again  to  Carmen,  but  for  the  most  part 
kept  to  the  tenor  of  his  thoughts. 

After  a  while  new  people  came  into  the  cafe,  among  them 
Gorman  and  Teddy,  and  their  companions.  Gorman  made 
at  once  for  Mortimer's  table,  and  sat  down. 

"Long,  I've  brought  you  your  money  back." 

Mortimer  shook  himself  and  smiled. 

"That's  quicker  than  you  thought." 

"Yes,"  he  lowered  his  voice.  "I  made  some  good  money 
today.  I  told  you  I  'd  give  you  one  hundred  francs  or  two 
hundred  for  that  loan.  I'm  going  to  do  it." 

' '  I  don 't  want  it, ' '  said  Mortimer.    ' '  Not  now,  anyway. ' ' 

Gorman  took  out  a  bundle  of  notes. 

"You'd  be  welcome  to  it,  Long,  God's  truth." 

Mortimer  shook  his  head  again.  "Another  time,  if 
I  need  money,  Gorman." 

Gorman  counted  out  five  one  hundred  franc  notes  from 
a  bundle  of  perhaps  twenty-five.  "Here  it  is."  He  put 
them  in  Mortimer's  hand.  "Don't  forget.  If  you  need 


52  THE  OUTSIDER 

money  ever,  and  I've  got  it ."  He  put  back  the  other 

notes.  ' '  And  now  you  can  have  something  on  me. ' ' 

"Not  now,"  said  Mortimer.    "We're  going  now." 

They  called  Marius  and  paid  him. 

"Another  evening,  Gorman,"  said  Mortimer.  "I'll  be 
here  long  enough. ' ' 

The  four  of  them  went  up  to  the  hotel.  Mortimer's  room 
looked  irresistibly  cosy ;  a  fire  was  burning  on  the  iron  sup- 
ports, and  red  lights  danced  on  the  edges  of  the  tables  and 
the  dresser.  They  took  chairs  on  either  side  of  the  fire  and 
settled  themselves  comfortably.  Both  men  had  their  pipes 
going.  In  Mortimer's  heart  was  ineffable  content.  Car- 
men was  on  the  arm  of  the  chair,  nearer  the  fire.  The 
light  struck  up  against  her  throat  and  lips  and  eyelids 
as  she  smiled  down  at  Mortimer. 

"One  feels  well  here,"  she  sighed.  "I  wish  I  had  a 
room  like  this.  But  you  need  flowers  on  the  table." 

Ezra  raised  his  head  lazily.  "Nip  that  instinct  of  hers 
in  the  bud,  Mortimer.  She  wants  to  do  things  to  your 
room  already." 

"I  need  no  flowers  on  the  table,  Carmen,"  said  Mort- 
imer. "I  also  tell  you  in  advance,  Carmen,  that  I  need 
no  socks  darning  and  no  buttons  sewing." 

"Listen,"  she  protested,  almost  blushing,  "did  I  say 
anything  about  that?" 

"No,  but  you  might  be  tempted." 

"My  friend  is  not  like  me,  Carmen,"  explained  Ezra, 
waving  his  pipe.  "Mado  can  darn  my  socks  to  her  heart's 
content,  and  sew  on  all  the  buttons  that  are  fallen  off. 
I  confess  to  a  baulked  domestic  instinct.  Mortimer  de- 
spises that.  I  miss  being  a  bourgeois  with  a  fat  wife  and 
noisy  children.  Mortimer  is  at  the  other  end  of  the  world. 
You  will  put  him  in  a  frenzy  if  you  mention  socks  or 


THE  OUTSIDER  53 

laundry,  if  you  offer  female  help  or  try  to  introduce  the 
feminine  touch  into  his  life." 

''My  friend  has  me,"  said  Mortimer.  "You  have  to 
be  very  careful,  Carmen.  I  think  we'll  have  some  coffee." 
He  pressed  the  bell  over  the  fireplace. 

"My  friend,"  continued  Ezra,  mockingly,  "is  in  eternal 
terror  of  being  mistaken  for  a  bourgeois,  or  of  becoming 
one  in  fact.  He  would  rather  have  holes  in  his  stockings 
than  let  an  adoring  woman  darn  them.  He  is  so  busy  not 
being  bourgeois  that  he  never  has  time  for  anything  else." 

"Rats,"  said  Mortimer,  refusing  to  be  drawn.  "A 
bourgeois  is  a  man  who  gets  excited  when  he  is  called  a 
bourgeois.  Such  being  the  case  I  make  no  further  com- 
ment. ' ' 

The  proprietor  knocked  gently  at  the  door. 

"Four  cafes,  Monsieur,"  said  Mortimer. 

"Oui,  Monsieur." 

"Not  good  enough,"  said  Ezra.  "A  bourgeois  is  a  man 
that  goes  by  conceptions." 

"He  is  Matthew  Arnold's  poet,"  said  Mortimer,  "who 
goes  through  life  with  appropriate  emotions. ' ' 

"This  is  vieux  jeu,  Mortimer.  I  fear  that  a  bourgeois 
is  merely  one  who  loves  to  talk  a  lot  about  the  bourgeois." 

"Finally,"  said  Mortimer,  "a  bourgeois  is  a  man  who 
knows  what  bourgeois  means. ' ' 

"This  is  getting  too  fine,"  protested  Ezra.  "Though  I 
know,  to  define  true  madness,  what  is  it  but  to  be  mad 
one's  self?" 

"I  shall  get  a  headache  soon,"  said  Mortimer,  "to 
prove  that  I  am  not  a  bourgeois." 

The  coffee  came  in  dainty  array  on  an  old  metal  platter 
that  glinted  in  the  firelight,  so  pretty  that  Mortimer  en- 
joyed more  the  fact  of  taking  coffee  than  the  coffee  itself. 
He  was  browsing,  as  if  in  warm  broad  sunlight.  He 


54  THE  OUTSIDER 

watched  the  dark  corners  of  the  room,  the  books  in  the 
bookshelf.  He  felt  inexpressible  peace.  How  well  Ezra 
fell  in  with  him!  He  never  talked  too  much,  he  never 
insisted  on  his  views.  He  just  made  aimless  remarks  from 
time  to  time.  And  the  girls  sat  silent,  smiling  and  pensive. 

"They  must  have  curious  conceptions  at  home  why  I 
want  to  stay  in  Paris,"  said  Mortimer,  suddenly  amused. 
"They  think  I  want  to  lead  a  wild  life;  father  pictures 
me  in  a  whirl  of  naked  arms  and  fluttering  lingerie." 

"He  would  be  disappointed  if  he  saw  you  now."  sug- 
gested Ezra. 

"Worse,  frightened.  A  man  that  wants  to  stay  in  Paris 
to  do  this  must  be  abnormal,  which  is  worse  than  wicked. ' ' 
He  rubbed  his  head  against  Carmen's  arm.  "Carmen, 
you  are  the  wickedness  dreamed  of  by  my  forefathers,  the 
Scarlet  Woman,  the  Ancient  Babylonian  Horror." 

Ezra  laughed  aloud.  "It  isn't  nice  to  call  her  an  an- 
cient Babylonian  Horror.  How  old  are  you,  Carmen  ? ' ' 

"Twenty-two." 

"As  much  as  that?"  said  Mortimer  surprised.  "She 
looks  nineteen.  Poor  little  Carmen,  valiant  little  Car- 
men— "  he  purred  against  her,  like  a  cat,  smiling  all  the 
time. 

Ezra  emptied  his  pipe,  stretched  himself,  and  rose. 

"I  feel  contented  this  evening,  Mortimer;  why,  I  don't 
know;  perhaps  a  reflection  of  your  mood.  Goodnight." 

He  went  out  with  Mado.  Mortimer  and  Carmen  re- 
mained wordless  in  their  places. 

The  flames  on  the  logs  had  died  into  a  hundred  little 
leaves  that  played  among  oharred  crevices.  The  lights 
danced  no  more  on  the  edge  of  the  furniture;  there  was 
only  a  still  glow  through  all  the  room,  darkening  into  the 
far  corners.  The  minutes  went  by,  one  after  the  other. 

The  sense  of  time  weighed  on  Mortimer  then,  as  it  al- 


THE  OUTSIDER  55 

ways  did  in  contentment.  He  felt  that  this  was  a  respite 
from  life,  and,  even  as  he  felt  it,  it  was  passing  from  him 
— a  caress  and  a  farewell — remorseless  in  its  gentleness. 
He  leaned  his  head  closer  to  Carmen  and  found  rest,  but 
rest  that  hurt,  like  sudden  physical  repose  after  long, 
agonising  effort.  He  wanted  to  speak,  to  give  utterance 
to  the  indefinite  fear  that  was  starting  up  within  him. 

How  impermanent  is  this  happiness,  he  thought.  There 
is  not  time  enough  to  say,  it  is  mine.  In  its  very  cradle 
it  is  oppressed  by  the  sense  of  its  own  mortality — like  our- 
selves, like  all  life.  This  is  the  sadness  that  haunts  all 
living  things,  that  broods  in  the  sunlight,  that  stands  like 
an  eternal  sentinel  behind  our  merriment. 

"Carmen,"  he  said,  and  her  arm  went  closer  around  him. 


CHAPTER  IV 

Paris,  October,  1919. 
Dear  Wilfred : 

I  do  believe  it  is  well  over  a  year  since  we  last  heard 
from  each  other,  so  that  instead  of  apologising  for  the 
delay  I  might  as  well  apologise  for  troubling  the  dust  on 
ancient  memories.  But  this  being  written  almost  entirely 
for  my  personal  amusement,  I  don't  think  I  will  apologise 
at  all. 

You  must  have  heard  from  various  sources  that  I  was 
not  returning  to  the  States.  There  must  have  been  a  reg- 
ular flutter  over  there  when  the  news  leaked  out.  Perhaps 
they  don't  believe  it  yet.  But  if  they  ask  you,  tell  them 
it's  true — or  better  still,  tell  them  that  you  don't  know. 
Somehow  it  displeases  me  to  imagine  them  lifting  their 
eyebrows  and  saying,  "Well,  well,  so  Mortimer  Long's 
staying  in  Paris  for  good."  Why  this  should  displease  me 
is  not  clear — except  it's  my  old  sensitiveness  about  other 
people's  making  comments  on  my  business. 

But  here  I'm  staying,  old  Wilfred.  I  have  no  regrets 
for  America,  or,  to  be  more  exact,  for  the  collection  of 
foolish  people  I  knew  over  there.  It  is  really  astonishing 
how  indifferent  one  can  become.  Where  you  are  now,  I 
have  no  doubt,  you  feel  yourself  inextricably  imprisoned 
in  the  coil  of  these  personalities;  you  cannot  imagine  com- 
plete liberation.  Yet  it  is  so  easy  to  achieve.  You  realize 
here,  so  quickly,  that  your  disappearance  creates  very  little 
disturbance. 

Anyway,  it  doesn't  matter.  If  there  are  a  few  people 
over  there,  you,  old  Professor  Worton,  and  one  or  two 
more,  who  do  regret  me,  it's  of  no  importance.  You  few 

56 


THE  OUTSIDER  57 

are,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  those  people  whose  interest  in  me 
I  resented  most — the  ones  who  were  most  convinced  that 
I  had  a  future,  the  ones  for  whom  I  sacrificed  any  natural 
dignity  that  I  possessed  to  prove,  if  I  could,  that  I  was 
not  what  I  was. 

I  forgive  you  now,  because  I  have  given  up  in  all  peace- 
fulness  the  intention  of  living  up  to  your  expectations. 
Take  this,  if  you  like,  as  a  sort  of  official  notice  that  I 
withdraw  from  the  contract  which  you  thrust  on  me.  I 
even  repudiate  any  suggestion  that  I  owe  you  this  notice. 
But  you  are  welcome  to  it. 

I  am  at  peace  in  Paris.  This  morning  I  had  a  good 
sleep  in  Notre  Dame,  and  woke  up  to  the  sound  of  an  organ. 
You  do  not  know  what  it  means  to  sleep  and  wake  up  in 
Notre  Dame.  It  is  unique  among  sensations.  When  I 
was  awake  I  tried  to  outstare  one  of  the  gargoyles.  That 
is  a  desperate  experiment,  and  nearly  as  good  for  driving 
a  man  to  the  uncertain  limits  of  sanity  as  staring  an 
hour  or  two  into  an  abyss.  After  a  while  you  are  not  quite 
sure  whether  you  are  inspecting  the  gargoyle  so  curiously 
or  whether  that  staring,  grinning  gargoyle  is  inspecting 
you,  and  getting  a  deal  of  secret  fun  out  of  it,  too.  After 
another  little  while  you  believe  you  are  both  gargoyles  and 
will  stand  there  outstaring  each  other  till  the  end  of  the 
world.  Did  you  ever  lie  flat  in  your  bed,  with  your  arms 
straight  at  your  side  and  your  feet  stretched  out  stiff  and 
your  toes  perpendicular,  and  hypnotise  yourself  into  the 
belief  that  you  were  dead  and  in  a  coffin?  I  suppose  you 
have  done  this — most  people  do  it  at  some  time  or  other, 
and  think  they  are  alone  to  do  it.  The  sensation  with  the 
gargoyle  is  much  the  same. 

When  I  shook  that  gargoyle  off  (it  got  the  better  of  me 
in  the  end — so  much  so  that  I  was  ashamed  to  walk  away 
from  it,  and  felt  it  staring  rigidly  after  me  all  the  way 


58  THE  OUTSIDER 

down  the  aisle)  I  went  out  into  the  sunlight  and  wandered 
down  by  the  river.  Sunlight  on  the  Seine!  You  don't 
get  that  anywhere  else.  There  is  a  special  combination — 
and  it  can't  be  transported. 

I  wandered  over  old  cobble-stoned  streets  and  looked  into 
hopeless  shop-windows  in  tangled  districts  near  the  Latin 
Quarter.  I  had  lunch  somewhere  up  there  (I  am  becom- 
ing an  expert  in  cheap  lunches  in  Paris — and  need  to) 
in  a  miraculously  small  restaurant  where  I  heard  some 
excellent  Auvergne  patois,  for  nothing.  I  didn  't  understand 
a  word,  but  I  enjoyed  it. 

After  that  I  wandered  down  the  quays  where  the  books 
are  and  bought  a  tattered  history  of  Russia  in  French. 
Why  ?  I  have  no  idea.  It  is  another  form  of  kleptomania. 
And  there  was  something  pathetic  about  the  volume.  Also 
I  spent  half-an-hour  at  that  stall  amused  by  some  early 
nineteenth  century  colored  drawings  pinned  up  on  the 
walls  of  the  cases,  and  this  volume  was  the  cheapest  con- 
sistent with  the  expectations  I  must  have  raised  in  the 
old  lady's  bosom.  There's  a  horrible  rapacity  about  some 
of  these  book-sellers,  Anatole  France  notwithstanding. 
They  watch  you  from  their  chairs  with  terrifying  close- 
ness, so  convinced  that  you  are  about  to  steal  a  book  that 
they  almost  mesmerize  you  into  doing  it. 

In  the  afternoon  I  was  up  in  the  room  here,  and  I 
worked.  I  am  almost  earning  my  living  here,  by  a  sort 
of  accidental  honesty,  the  only  decent  way.  Yes,  that 
brings  me  back  to  my  new-old  philosophy ;  this  life  of  ours 
is  really  an  accident,  and  what  drove  me  from  you  set  of 
people  was  the  belief  of  yours  that  we  can  make  it  any- 
thing else.  You  would  be  so  pleasant  if  you  hadn't  always 
your  aims — 

One  umpty-umpty-umpty  urn 

To  which  the  whole  creation  moves 


THE  OUTSIDER  59 

as  Tennyson  characteristically  sings.  You  people  spoil 
all  the  purposeful  purposelessness  of  life. 

I  don't  know  what  I'm  going  to  do  tomorrow,  or  the  day 
after,  or  next  week,  or  the  week  after,  or  next  year,  or  the 
year  after.  If  you  knew  the  contentment  this  ignorance 
means — the  freedom !  It  is  a  pure  wilderness — as  it  should 
be. 

"Well,  something  too  much  of  this.  I  wish  you  knew  Car- 
men instead.  She  is  sitting  opposite  me  just  now,  filled 
with  admiration  and  astonishment  at  the  rapidity  with 
which  I  write.  Her  brown  eyes  are  open  with  wonder.  She 
believes  me  a  marvel  of  erudition,  of  ability — a  genius  in 
full.  But  she  expects  nothing  from  me  but  to  be  what  I 
am.  She  does  not  tacitly  assume  that  I  am  going  to  do 
great  things — and  then  throw  the  onus  on  me.  She  thinks 
I  am  perfection  as  I  am — down  to  my  physical  appearance. 
She  goes  the  whole  hog  in  admiration. 

I've  known  her,  in  reality,  about  three  weeks,  though  I 
saw  her  often  before  I  got  to  know  her.  Now  I  've  known 
her  three  weeks  I  know  as  much  as  I  ever  shall  know.  She 
will  never  protest  that  I  do  not  understand  her.  She  doesn't 
know  that  such  a  thing  exists,  a  sort  of  entity,  "being  mis- 
understood"— for  she's  never  read  the  books. 

Yes,  that  reminds  me,  too,  that  passion  of  ours  for  being 
understood,  especially  as  between  man  and  woman,  the 
foolishest  of  all  passions.  Why  the  devil  be  understood 
or  try  to  understand  anyone  ?  Why  this  indelicate  prying 
into  each  other,  the  effort  to  get  the  very  guts  out  of  each 
other's  mentality?  It  must  have  been  part  of  your  comic 
belief  in  your  own  and  each  other's  ultimate  purpose  in 
the  Great  Plan — bless  you  all  over  there. 

To  return  to  Carmen.  She  would  be  an  education  to 
you  people.  (She  hasn't  the  slightest  notion  that  I  am 
writing  about  her.  She  couldn't  for  the  life  of  her  imagine 


60  THE  OUTSIDER 

how  one  could  write  a  whole  page  about  her).  She  is  an 
education  to  me.  She  is  the  beloved  personification  of  what 
I  have  found  in  Paris.  She  is  the  wraith  of  the  unattached, 
the  female  incarnation  (though  that  phrase  reminds  one 
of  the  ineffably  silly  personifications  of  Watts)  of  the  aim- 
lessness  of  life.  She  has  neither  forethought  nor  after- 
thought. She  desires  neither  permanence  nor  fixation ; 
neither,  so  to  speak,  a  local  habitation  nor  a  name.  She  is 
every  hour  what  she  is.  It  would  be  outside  her  conception 
of  things  to  understand  the  question  ' '  Carmen,  what  about 
next  year?" 

You  would  imagine,  as  you  see  here  there,  that  she  is 
thinking  about  something.  She  isn't.  She  looks  at  the 
silly  model  of  the  Eiffel  Tower  on  the  mantelpiece  (she 
bought  me  that  for  ten  francs  out  of  twenty  I  gave  her  two 
days  ago  when  she  was  broke)  and  meditates  on  that  with 
pleasure.  Then  she  looks  at  me  and  meditates  on  me  with 
pleasure.  Then  she  looks  at  the  typewriter,  and  at  me 
again,  and  at  the  bookshelves  and  back  at  me.  She  looks  as 
tranquil  and  placid  and  immovable  as  a  plump  china  shep- 
herdess. But  if  I  stretch  out  my  hand  across  this  table  and 
caress  hers,  and  look  into  her  eyes,  with  mine  wide  open,  she 
wakes  slowly,  and  a  curtain  lifts  from  her  pupils,  and  the 
glow  comes  out,  and  a  subtle  change  comes  over  her,  and 
the  tigress  awakes. 

However,  I  oughtn't  to  write  to  you  about  this. 

What  I  like  about  her  is  the  tacit  way  she  accepts  what 
she  is.  She  doesn't  bother  as  to  the  reason  or  as  to  the 
reality  or  the  end.  If  she  could  utter  herself,  she  would 
say,  with  profound  conviction,  "what  is,  is."  She  does 
not  wish  to  know  Whither  We  Are  Tending,  or  how  long 
she  will  love  me,  or  I  her,  or  whether  I  love  her,  in  fact, 
which  is  still  incertain.  (But  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  "to 
be  in  love"  any  longer  represents  anything  so  distinct  to 


THE  OUTSIDER  61 

me.  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  I  ought  to  use  such  words 
to  people  like  you,  who  make  a  whole  world  of  circumstance 
out  of  them.)  As  to  imagining  Carmen  building  a  claim 
on  her  love — that  is  the  last  word  in  impossibility.  It  docs 
not  occur  to  her  that  when  two  people  love  (or  approxi- 
mately love)  as  we  do,  there  is  something  dreadful  and  de- 
finite and  decisive  to  do  about  it,  move  worlds,  excite  friends, 
and  make  a  frightful  fuss  and  all  sorts  of  drastic  and 
eternal  arrangements.  It  just  doesn  't  come  into  the  natural 
purity  of  her  mind.  She  doesn't  make  a  social  epic  out  of 
it,  a  tremendous  and  calamitous  public  event.  "  Je  t'aime." 
That's  about  her  only  view  about  it,  and  I  think  it's  to 
the  point. 

I  can  see  a  solid  curiosity  awakening  in  you,  Wilfred, 
or  you  are  no  friend  and  pupil  of  old  Worton.  You  ask 
already,  ' '  Give  me  details ;  how  does  she  live  ?  Where  was 
she  born?  What  becomes  of  her  in  the  end?"  For  no 
sufficient  reason  I  can  call  up  I  shall  tell  you  what  I  know. 

She  was  born  in  Normandy,  and  lived  there  until  she  was 
nineteen.  She  led  a  miserable  life  with  her  parents,  and  in 
the  end  they  sent  her  to  an  aunt  in  le  Havre.  The  aunt  was 
only  ten  years  older  than  Carmen.  With  this  aunt  she 
lived  until  about  a  year  ago.  They  fell  out  about  the 
British  soldiers.  Carmen's  aunt  appears  to  have  been  a  hor- 
rible sort  of  person.  I  can't  go  into  the  details  as  I  ex- 
tracted them  indirectly  from  Carmen.  She  herself  (the 
aunt,  I  mean)  was  desperately  attached  to  a  Captain,  but 
she  could  not  understand  Carmen's  weakness  for  an  im- 
pecunious Corporal  called  Harry.  The  word  impecunious 
is  significant  there,  as  officers  with  means  had  indicated 
to  the  aunt  that  the  niece  did  not  displease  them.  The  aunt 
encouraged  a  couple  or  more  of  these  officers,  and  insisted 
fiercely  to  Carmen  that  there  was  no  reason  why  she  could 
not  be  good  to  all  of  them.  In  the  end  Carmen  was  de- 


62  THE  OUTSIDER 

feated,  for  the  aunt  threatened  to  pack  her  out  of  the 
house.  I  can  imagine  the  poor  little  provincial  kid,  hated 
at  home  (she  was,  roundly)  and  lost  in  the  whole  world. 
To  be  turned  out  of  the  house  meant  accepting  something 
worse  than  the  aunt  offered  her.  So  she  stayed  with  her 
aunt  and  the  British  officers.  As  a  matter  of  fact  they  seem 
to  have  been  decent  fellows,  because  when  they  found  out 
about  each  other  (the  astute  aunt  got  the  time-table  mixed 
up  and  her  nerve  couldn't  carry  the  situation  off  at  the 
last  moment)  two  of  them  gave  Carmen  a  very  handsome 
present  before  saying  adieu  to  her. 

The  presents  brought  her  to  Paris  one  night — absolutely 
alone,  and  without  a  trade.  I  think  she  had  about  six 
hundred  francs  in  all  when  she  got  here.  She  got  a  job 
first  as  a  bonne  a  tout  faire,  a  general  servant,  but  didn't 
hold  that  for  more  than  a  month.  Then  she  got  the  grippe. 
Then  she  worked  in  a  restaurant  near  the  Place  de  la  Re- 
publique  and  fell  ill  after  two  months  of  it.  After  that  she 
was  a  theatre  attendant.  Now  she  is  working  in  a  toy 
factory. 

Her  average  salary  was  two  hundred  francs  a  month  (not 
of  course  as  a  servant;  there  she  got  much  less).  How 
does  one  live  on  two  hundred  francs  a  month  ?  The  propo- 
sition is  simpler  than  it  looks.  One  has  a  friend.  That 
is  a  natural  and  understood  thing.  If  you  don't  have  a 
friend  it  means  something  worse — the  streets.  Carmen 
was  rather  fortunate.  She  found  an  American  (my  pre- 
decessor, I  might  say)  but  he  went  back  to  America  a  few 
months  ago.  His  name  was  Jim.  (Nobody  has  a  second 
name  to  Carmen,  of  course).  He  sent  her,  until  very  re- 
cently, ten  dollars  every  month,  but  that  has  stopped  now. 

That  was  the  reason  that  Carmen  could  afford  the  luxury 
of  taking  lunch  in  a  more  than  modest  restaurant  where  she 
saw  me  for  a  long  time  before  we  got  to  know  each  other. 


THE  OUTSIDER  63 

Afford  is  relative  here.  The  ten  dollars  did  not  quite  cover 
the  cost  of  those  lunches.  At  her  atelier  the  lunch  only 
costs  one  franc,  so  the  ten  dollars  about  covered  the  differ- 
ence in  the  expense.  Moreover,  bread  in  our  restaurant  is 
without  limit,  so  you  can  make  a  very  heavy  meal  of  it,  and 
that  helps  to  tide  over  the  supper. 

She  is  making  two  hundred  and  fifty  francs  a  month  at 
her  factory  now.  She  pays  a  hundred  a  month  for  her 
room.  That  leaves  her  five  francs  a  day  for  food,  clothing, 
incidentals  and  accidents.  I  believe  she  can  actually  live 
on  that,  bar  the  -clothing.  For  that  she  would  have  to  rely 
on  windfalls,  me  in  this  case.  Between  me  and  Jim  she  has 
saved  over  fifty  francs  on  the  road  to  a  new  dress.  She 
wants  one  for  one  hundred  and  fifty.  I  offered  to  make  up 
the  difference,  but  she  has  suspicions  concerning  my  im- 
pecuniosity  and  was  almost  indignant  at  the  offer.  How- 
ever, she  has  not  broken  into  her  fifty  francs,  and,  with 
me  replacing  Jim,  she  hopes  to  have  the  hundred  and  fifty 
by  December.  She  needs  a  hat  in  the  interim.  She'll  do 
without,  she  says.  She  keeps  close  tab  on  what  I  give  her 
and  has  sworn  that  she  will  never  let  me  spend  more  than 
a  hundred  francs  a  month  on  her. 

I  know  that  in  your  mind  the  instant  question  arises, 
1 '  How  do  I  know  that  I  alone  "...  Well,  I  can 't  put  the 
question  without  making  the  suspicion  read  unspeakably 
mean  and,  as  it  were,  you  accordingly.  Curiously,  apart 
from  the  fact  that  I  haven't  any  such  suspicion,  the  ques- 
tion doesn  't  trouble  me.  As  I  look  at  her  now  I  am  blasted 
by  the  impudence  of  such  thoughts.  She  and  I  never  ask 
any  question  of  that  kind  of  each  other.  Not  yet,  anyway. 
Never  will,  I  think. 

Writing  as  an  American,  to  an  American  (meaning  that 
I  can't  shake  off  the  American  figure  of  speech  in  my 
thoughts)  it  is  very  hard  to  shut  out  of  these  pages  the  faint 


64  THE  OUTSIDER 

suggestion  that  I  want  to  defend  Carmen  and  myself  from 
implied  charges  of  vulgarity.  In  ordinary  language,  in  the 
set  phrases  of  our  conceptions,  one  cannot  convey  individ- 
ual things.  These  phrases  are  like  newspaper  headlines, 
and  the  conceptions  lump  us  together. 

No,  I  cannot  say  what  I  want  to.  Perhaps  I  had  better 
leave  that  side  of  the  thing.  You  are  not  quite  like  the 
others,  after  all.  Only  I  am  afraid  that  you  might  suspect 
me  of  doing  something  grandly  unconventional,  and  so  on. 
Which  I'm  not.  I'm  not  doing  anything  at  all.  That's 
the  humor  of  it. 

Now,  on  my  oath,  I  am  half  continuing  this  letter  because 
it  tickles  me  to  see  Carmen 's  astonishment  at  the  prodigious 
length  of  it.  And  partly,  I  confess,  I  like  writing  without 
obligation.  Take  it  for  granted  that  you  are  the  only  per- 
son in  the  world  that  I  care  to  write  to;  there's  some 
pleasure  in  telling  you  aimlessly  all  about  it,  and  I  like  to 
see  it  on  paper.  I  tell  you  everything  casually,  if  you  please 
(a  distinction  hard  to  catch;  there's  no  nuance  between 
writing  a  letter  and  not  writing  it;  and  when  it's  written, 
and  at  such  length,  too,  you  might  be  justified  in  thinking 
that  I  wrote  deliberately,  in  the  heavy  determination  to  ex- 
plain myself). 

I  don't  think  it's  fair  to  impose  on  Carmen  any  more. 
She  believes  this  letter  to  be  a  frightfully  important  docu- 
ment. She's  tired,  and  wants  to  talk  a  little  to  me.  Be 
good. 

Ever  yours, 

Mortimer, 

Paris,  October,  1919. 
Dear  Dad : 

I  had  your  letter  telling  me  that  you  had  been  expecting 
a  cable  any  day  from  Brest  that  I  was  coming  back.  Ap- 


THE  OUTSIDER  65 

parently  you  wouldn't  take  me  seriously  when  I  wrote 
you  that  I  wasn't  coming  home,  that  I  was  staying  in  Paris 
for  good.  This  letter  will  inform  you  that  I  was  demob- 
ilised here  about  three  weeks  ago  and  I'm  settling  down. 

It's  about  two  years  since  I  left  home  to  join  the  army. 
You  mustn't  think  that  after  these  two  years  I  could  put 
up  with  home  life  as  I  used  to.  It  took  the  war  and  the 
army  to  tear  me  away  from  all  that.  And  I'm  not  going 
back. 

It's  no  use  me  being  foolish  and  sentimental  about  things. 
You  and  I  have  quarelled  often  enough  for  you  to  know 
what  I  think.  It's  no  use  writing  me  how  glad  the  boys '11 
be  to  see  me,  and  how  the  Elks  are  planning  something  for 
me  and  the  rest  of  it.  I've  got  no  taste  for  all  that  any 
more;  and  I  won't  take  up  the  old  life  for  the  sake  of  the 
first  few  pleasant  days. 

Your  letter  makes  the  usual  joke  about  some  pretty 
French  demoiselle  tempting  me  not  to  stay  here.  I  suppose 
it's  no  use  writing  to  you  that  that  has  nothing  to  do 
with  it,  and  that  long  before  Armistice  was  signed  my  mind 
was  made  up  ?  It's  too  long  a  story  to  tell  you  exactly  why 
I  want  to  stay  here;  and  I've  told  you  the  substance  of  it 
often  enough  at  home,  I  guess. 

You  and  I  are  of  different  make;  you  like  your  home, 
(quarrels  and  everything  else  included)  your  neighbors 
and  Deacon  Ryan  and  Ben  Weston  and  his  Times;  you 
think  that's  the  best  way  of  living,  happy  or  not,  or  the 
only  way  of  living  that's  decent.  You  and  mother  and  Sis 
belong  to  one  bunch  and  I  to  another.  Of  course  I'd  lik*e 
to  see  you  now  and  again;  but  I  can't  pretend  I  want  to 
live  at  home.  I  can't  pretend  that  I  like  to  have  Ben  Weston 
jawing  all  the  evening  about  politics  and  his  damn  silly 
paper,  or  pretend  to  mother  that  I  like  being  in  when  Mrs. 
Weston  and  Mrs.  Settles  call,  or  pretend  to  Sis  that  I  want 


66  THE  OUTSIDER 

to  go  to  those  dances  at  Horrocks.  And  that 's  all  there  is 
to  do  at  home;  except  the  young  folks,  and  there  isn't  one 
worth  a  nickle  stays  in  the  home  town. 

That's  why  I'm  not  coming  home.  Now  you'll  ask  me 
why  I  don't  at  least  come  back  to  the  States.  That's  an- 
other story  and  a  longer  one;  or  rather,  it's  the  same  story 
told  in  a  different  way.  It  wouldn't  be  any  use  my  going 
into  it.  I'm  not  coming  back.  That's  all. 

You  can  ask  Fred  Ainsley  to  sell  my  Indian  and  the 
canoe  and  the  tent,  and  give  him  my  address. 

Remember  me  to  a  few  folks  here  and  there.  Try  and 
look  in  an  unsentimental  way  at  my  staying  here.  I  'm  sure 
you  and  mother  and  Sis  got  along  quite  comfortably  with- 
out me  these  last  two  years.  You  've  got  the  habit  now,  and 
I  want  you  to  take  advantage  of  it. 
Your  son, 

Mortimer. 

This  second  letter  ended,  Mortimer  drew  a  deep  breath 
and  put  the  pen  down.  These  were  his  last  letters  for  a 
long  time,  so  he  did  not  begrudge  the  energy.  He  rose  from 
his  chair,  laughed  at  Carmen,  and  walked  a  couple  of  times 
up  and  down  the  room  to  unstiffen  himself.  He  had  on  an 
old  purple  bathrobe  that  through  astonishing  vicissitudes 
had  accompanied  him  from  his  first  camp  to  Paris.  This 
bathrobe  was  beloved  of  Carmen.  She  had  not,  she  con- 
fessed, ever  known  a  man  who  wore  a  bathrobe,  at  least, 
in  her  presence. 

"Well,  have  you  finished?" 

"Owi,  my  little  one." 

"Tell  me  what  you  have  written  there." 

Mortimer  plumped  himself  in  the  armchair  and  signalled 
Carmen  to  her  perch.  She  knew  his  favorite  arrangement. 

"I  have  written  a  long  letter  to  a  friend  to  tell  him  he's 


THE  OUTSIDER  67 

foolish  and  I'm  wise.  And  I've  written  a  short  letter  to 
my  father  to  tell  him  I  can 't  leave  Paris  as  long  as  Carmen 
is  there." 

"Ah  non,"  she  cried,  "did  you  really  write  that  to  your 
father?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  stretching  up  to  her,  and  pulling  her 
ear.  "I  wrote  that  to  him.  Or,  if  I  didn't,  he  thinks  it 
anyway." 

' '  Oh,  he  will  be  angry. ' ' 

"That's  true,"  confessed  Mortimer.  "But  am  I  not 
old  enough  to  know  what  I  want?" 

"Yes,  you  already  have  some  grey  hairs." 

"The  devil!"  He  had  not  spoken  so  seriously.  "Grey 
hairs?  I'm  only  twenty-five,  Carmen." 

"But  you  have  some  grey  hairs,"  she  persisted.  "I 
found  them." 

"Where  are  they?    Bring  me  the  little  mirror." 

She  brought  the  shaving  mirror  from  the  wash-stand  and 
held  i-t  over  his  head  at  an  angle. 

"Look,"  she  said,  parting  his  hair  with  her  fingers. 
"Here's  one  grey  hair,  and  here's  another,  and  here's  a 
whole  cluster  of  them." 

He  saw  the  glint  among  the  dark-brown  tangle. 

"That's  funny,"  he  said,  after  a  pause.  "It's  the  first 
grey  hair  I've  seen  on  my  head."  He  was  silent. 

"Have  I  made  you  'angry,  Mortimer?"  she  asked  tim- 
idly. 

He  shook  his  head.    ' '  No,  no,  you  didn  't  put  them  there. ' ' 

"But  I  told  you  about  them." 

"That's  nothing.  I  suppose  every  man's  first  grey  hairs 
are  discovered  and  pointed  out  by  a  woman." 

She  was  genuinely  distressed. 

"But  that  doesn't  matter,  little  one,"  she  protested.    "I 


68  THE  OUTSIDER 

had  an  uncle  whose  hair  was  all  white  at  twenty-five,  and 
he  was  a  young  man  till  he  was  sixty." 

Mortimer  shook  his  head,  smiling.  Her  distress  touched 
him,  but  the  grey  hair  was  a  shock  to  him. 

"If  all  my  hair  was  white,  Carmen,"  he  said,  with  a 
heavy  assumption  of  sentimentality,  "would  you  love  me?" 

"Vas!"  she  said,  fiercely.  "I  would  love  you  if  you 
were  bald." 

He  jumped  in  his  chair.  "It's  more  than  I  can  say, 
Carmen,"  he  said.  "I  couldn't  look  at  you  if  you  were 
bald." 

She  laughed  genuinely.  "I  shall  never  be  bald.  I  shall 
be  dead  before." 

"Did  your  uncle  ever  grow  bald,  Carmen.  Or  did  he 
go  bald  subsequently  and  preserve  his  youth  nevertheless?" 

"Dis  done,  are  you  trying  to  kid?"  she  asked.  "He 
didn't  go  bald  at  all." 

"You  never  had  a  bald  uncle  then?"  he  inquired. 

"Non,  never,"  she  said,  seriously.  "Really,  this  uncle 
kept  his  hair  although  they  were  white.  They  never  fell 
out." 

"Did  he  use  any  hair-restorer?" 

She  realised  he  was  making  fun  of  her.  "I  won't  speak 
to  you  any  more, ' '  she  sai'd.  ' '  You  never  take  me  seriously. ' ' 

"Come,  Carmen,"  he  said,  looking  at  his  wrist-watch. 
"Shall  we  revel?  Shall  we  go  to  the  cinema  or  shall  we 
play  Jonchets." 

"What  you  like,  Mortimer,  it's  all  the  same  to  me  as 
long  as  you  are  there." 

"No,"  he  roared  suddenly,  rising  from  his  chair. 
"Don't  be  eternally  affectionate.  I  can't  stand  that  croon- 
ing tone  of  voice."  He  rushed  up  and  down  the  room, 
Carmen  after  him,  half  laughing,  half  frightened. 

"Non,  non,  then,  let's  play  Jonchets." 


THE  OUTSIDER  60 

"Cinema  too  expensive?"  asked  Mortimer,  stopping  ab- 
ruptly. 

"Yes.    We'll  go  the  cinema  next  Saturday  night." 

"Then  we'll  play  Jonchets." 

Jonchets  is  a  French  indoor  game  which  might  be  trans- 
lated as  "Jack  Straws."  It  is  the  ultimate  in  simplicity.  A 
little  close  pile  of  wooden  objects  is  thrown  on  to  the  table. 
The  game  is  to  lift  the  pieces  away  one  by  one  with  two 
little  wooden  prongs,  but  each  piece  must  be  removed  with- 
out disturbing  any  other  piece.  The  slightest  shock  to 
another  piece,  a  mere  quiver,  is  a  disqualification.  A  player 
appropriates  each  piece  as  detached,  and  the  one  with  most 
pieces  at  the  end  of  the  game  is  the  winner. 

The  very  inanity  of  the  game  appealed  to  Mortimer.  He 
took  the  box  off  the  mantelpiece  and  both  of  them  sat  down 
at  table.  Mortimer  upset  the  heap. 

"You  first,  Carmen." 

"Mortimer,  you  musn't  shake  the  table  and  pretend  it 
was  me." 

"No,  no.  And  you  musn't  pretend  it  was  me  who  shook 
the  table." 

"Well,  you  begin  instead." 

"No,  you  begin  instead." 

They  smiled  at  each  other.  Mortimer  could  sense  how 
the  mere  exchange  of  words,  even  his  mere  presence,  was  to 
Carmen  an  intense  joy.  The  intensity  of  that  joy,  its  pas- 
sionate immanence,  amazed  him.  She  did  not  forget,  not 
for  an  instant. 

He  took  up  the  wooden  fork  and  negotiated  the  first  scrap ; 
both  of  them  hung  breathlessly  over  the  table,  Mortimer 
putting  his  tongue  out  as  if  forgetting  himself  in  the  game. 
He  puffed  with  excitement  as  he  detached  the  first  piece 
without  accident.  Carmen  was  hypnotised  by  his  affected 
excitement.  He  stopped  pulling  at  the  second  fragment 


70  THE  OUTSIDER 

and  looked  slyly  and  with  profound  amusement  at  her  earn- 
est face,  at  the  eyes  fixed  almost  in  terror  on  the  wooden 
prong.  She  realised  after  a  moment  that  the  hand  was 
motionless,  looked  up  at  Mortimer  in  a  mixture  of  re- 
lief and  disappointment. 

"Oh,  you  are  not  playing." 

"No,"  he  said,  softly,  and,  keeping  his  eyes  on  her,  al- 
lowed a  curious,  fixed  look  to  come  into  them.  A  little 
smile  came  over  his  lips.  He  stretched  out  his  hand  and 
took  hers  very  gently.  Her  face  lit  slowly.  Her  lips 
opened  and  she  took  a  deep  breath.  Mortimer,  still  smil- 
ing half  mockingly,  stroked  her  hand  continuously.  After 
a  little  while  she  could  not  bear  it  any  longer.  She  uttered 
a  cry  and  took  a  swift  step  towards  him.  He  sprang  back, 
and  the  mockery  in  his  eyes  became  quite  open. 

"Ha?"    He  held  her  at  arms'  length. 

"Mortimer,"  she  whispered.     "You  mustn't." 

"No,"  he  agreed,  keeping  his  head  to  one  side.  "I 
mustn't.  Now  let's  go  back  to  the  Jonchets." 

She  uttered  a  deep  sigh  as  of  resignation,  and  went  back 
to  the  table  with  him.  "Now  play  seriously,"  she  begged 
him. 

"As  serious  as  serious  can  be,"  he  said,  gravely.  Labor- 
iously he  played  the  second  fragment.  Slowly  he  drew 
Carmen  again  into  her  first  almost  mortal  absorption.  Her 
eyes  were  only  on  his  hand  and  yet,  by  an  occasional  glance, 
he  was  aware  that  she  was  mimicking  with  a  comical  in- 
genuousness his  every  grimace,  his  exaggerated  relief  as 
the  fragment  moved  freely  out  of  entanglement,  his  ex- 
aggerated anguish  as  it  entered  another.  Finally,  the 
prong  in  his  trembling  fingers  suddenly  disturbed  the 
wrong  fragment,  and  Carmen  uttered  a  cry  of  terror. 

"I  have  lost,"  said  Mortimer  solemnly,  passing  a  hand- 


THE  OUTSIDER  71 

kerchief  over  his  brow.  "Your  turn,  Carmen.  I  have 
only  one." 

She  smiled  joyously.  "Voild!"  She  put  her  nose  al- 
most on  the  fragments  as  she  worked  on  the  one  Mortimer 
had  failed  on.  After  incredible  anxieties  she  freed  it.  She 
was  radiant.  "I've  won,  I've  done  it!"  she  crowed. 

"It's  true,"  he  admitted.  "You  are  younger  than  I,  and 
your  nerves  are  better. ' ' 

"Don't  you  want  to  play  any  more?"  she  asked. 

"No,"  he  decided  suddenly.  "I'll  sit  and  read."  II  > 
knew  by  instinct  that  this  kind  of  silly  capriciousness 
pleased  Carmen,  and  to  please  her  he  affected  it. 

' '  I  don 't.  But  you  haven 't  won.  And  now  be  quiet  and 
let  .me  read. ' ' 

He  had  no  intention  of  reading,  but  he  took  down  an 
Atlas  and  turned  the  pages  over.  Carmen  sat  in  the  arm- 
chair opposite,  still  as  a  mouse,  watching  him.  He  looked 
through  a  couple  of  continents  slowly  and  then  raised  his 
eyes. 

' '  What  are  you  looking  at  ? "  he  asked  abruptly. 

* '  Your  grey  hair, ' '  she  stammered  before  she  could  invent 
a  reply.  Then  she  came  over  and,  sitting  on  the  chair, 
put  her  arms  round  him. 

"I  know  why  you  have  grey  hair,"  she  whispered. 

"And  why?" 

"It's  because  you  think  a  lot  and  have  no  one  to  look 
after  you. ' ' 

"Is  that  all?" 

"Yes.  Because  you  live  alone,  and  no  one  does  anything 
for  you." 

He  looked  at  her  intently. 

"Carmen,"  he  said  slowly,  "you're  showing  the  cloven 
hoof,"  which  he  put  literally  into  French. 

"What?" 


72  THE  OUTSIDER 

"You  are  betraying  maternal  femininity.  What  do  you 
mean,  no  one  to  look  after  me  ? ' ' 

She  looked  down  and  would  not  answer. 

"What  is  the  implication,  young  lady?"  he  asked,  shak- 
ing her. 

She  burst  into  swift  speech.  "You  live  alone,  and  you've 
no  family  or  real  friends  and  there's  no  one  to  care 
whether  you  live  properly  or*  not,  or  eat  properly  or  do  any- 
thing." 

He  rose  from  his  chair  and  whistled.  "That  is  the 
cloven  hoof,"  he  said.  "You  mean  you  want  to  look  after 
me?" 

She  did  not  answer. 

"You  mean,"  he  said,  half  touched,  half  amused,  "you 
want  to  darn  my  socks." 

' '  Yes,  I  would  like  to  do  that  too. ' ' 

"Carmen,  you  are  honestly  shameless." 

"Darning  socks  as  a  remedy  for  grey  hairs,"  he  went 
on.  "It's  not  original." 

"But  look  you,  Mortimer,"  she  protested,  with  sudden 
tears  in  her  eyes.  "I  didn't  mean  to  tell  you  about  them. 
And  you  really  don't  live  as  you  ought  to." 

"Roundly,"  he  said,  stroking  her  hair.  "You  mean  you 
want  to  live  here  too,  eh  ? " 

Her  face  lit  brilliantly.    "Oh  yes." 

He  assumed  solemnity.  "Carmen,  forever  and  forever, 
drive  that  out  of  your  head — forever  and  forever."  Her 
face  darkened,  and  the  tears  came  back.  "Carmen,  if  I 
see  you  three  evenings  a  week,  four,  it  is  already  too  much. 
As  for  seeing  you  every  evening ! ' ' 

"But  Mortimer,  I  would  never,  never  bother  you." 

He  smiled.  ' '  I  know,  I  know, ' '  he  said,  obviously  incred- 
ulous. "Your  intentions  are  unimpeachable.  Your  tem- 
perament, dear  Carmen,  is  your  weak  point." 


THE  OUTSIDER  73 

"But  really  I  shouldn't  bother  you,  really,  really,"  she 
pleaded  passionately. 

"Carmen,  be  quiet.  The  subject  is  closed.  I've  told 
you." 

"But  Mortimer,  Mado  and  Monsieur  Ezra — 

"The  subject  is  closed,"  he  repeated  more  firmly. 

"Mortimer,  I  mean  it  for  your  sake.  You  do  not  live 
as  you  should.  You  say  you  have  to  spend  seven  hundred 
francs  a  month;  you  could  live  just  as  well  on  four  hun- 
dred; that  is  ample." 

"The  subject  is  .closed,"  he  said  again,  beginning  to  feel 
annoyed  and,  sitting  down  in  his  chair,  picked  a  newspaper 
from  the  table  and  looked  intently  at  an  illustration.  Car- 
men stood  silent. 

"There's  a  beautiful  woman,"  said  Mortimer  suddenly; 
to  change  the  subject.  "A  very  beautiful  woman."  He 
held  the  newspaper  to  the  light  and  looked  more  closely  at 
the  photograph  of  an  actress  in  a  modish  hat.  ' '  Don 't  you 
think  so?" 

Carmen  came  around  and  looked  quickly,  then,  with  a 
swift  gesture,  she  tore  the  paper  from  his  hand  and  ripped 
it  fiercely  across.  "I  don't  want  you  to  look  at  her." 

Mortimer  sat  stock  still  with  amazement,  then  did  not 
know  whether  to  laugh  or  be  serious.  He  watched  her 
crumpling  the  shreds  in  her  hands,  a  mingled  look  of  pain 
and  resentment  on  her  face.  "Carmen,"  he  said  finally, 
very  serious,  "you  are  giving  yourself  away.  You  have 
shown  a  desire  to  look  after  me  and  you  are  showing  jeal- 
ousy. Repent  before  it  is  too  late." 

"I  know  why  you  don't  want,"  she  said  at  last.  "It's 
because  you  must  have  another  friend. ' ' 

Now  he  was  genuinely  annoyed. 

"Carmen,  you  are  very  foolish." 

"It  is  true,"  she  insisted.    "It  is  true." 


74  THE  OUTSIDER 

He  frowned  and  thought  for  a  while.  He  could  not  be- 
lieve that  she  meant  her  accusation.  But  apparently  he 
had  miscalculated  a  little,  and  it  might  be  well  to  revise 
his  letter  to  Wilfred  in  regard  to  Carmen. 

"Goodnight,  Carmen.     You  must  go  now." 

She  started,  terrified.    "Ah,  non.    I  didn't  mean  that." 

"Too  late  now,"  he  said,  deciding  to  punish  her.  "You 
must  go." 

She  neither  answered  nor  moved;  only  stood  there  with 
the  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"Very  well.  You're  not  here,"  he  said  finally  and, 
taking  up  the  Atlas  again,  sat  down,  determined  to  ignore 
her. 

A  couple  of  minutes  passed.  Mortimer  began  to  wonder 
whether  Carmen  shared  Mado's  weakness  and  wanted  a 
scene,  but  his  judgment  denied  this.  This  must  be  a  case 
of  sincere  affectionate  motherliness  and  it  had  to  be  nipped 
in  the  bud. 

"Carmen,"  he  said  at  last.  "If  you  promise  not  to 
speak  about  this  again  I  shall  forgive  you,  and  you  can  sit 
in  the  chair  there  opposite  me.  If  not,  I  shall  turn  you 
out." 

She  came  and  sat  down  in  the  chair. 

"You  won't  speak  about  either  of  these  things  again?" 
he  asked,  firmly. 

"No,  Mortimer." 

"Alright.    You  can  come  and  sit  here,  then." 

She  came  over  to  his  armchair,  radiant  again.  "Ah,  you 
are  wicked, ' '  she  said. 

"No  I'm  not,"  he  answered,  but  he  was  troubled.  She 
was  not  as  simple  as  he  had  thought,  or,  rather,  her  sim- 
plicity was  of  another  kind. 

"Carmen,  do  you  need  money  just  now?" 

"N<m,  little  one." 


THE  OUTSIDER  75 

''I  think  you  are  wrong,  Carmen.  It's  Thursday.  How 
much  money  have  you  got?" 

"Seven  francs." 

"You'd  better  take  ten  more;  or  let's  say  fifteen,  till 
Saturday  evening." 

' '  I  don 't  need  so  much,  Mortimer.    Only  ten. ' ' 

He  gave  her  fifteen,  in  spite  of  her  protestations.  "And 
Carmen,  don't  buy  me  any  postage  stamps  or  Moroccan 
cigarettes.  If  you  do,  this  time  I'll  really  throw  them 
away. ' ' 

"Oui,  mon  petit."    Her  tone  was  submissive  now. 

"Come,  pauvre  petit  Carmen;  don't  be  out  of  mood.  I've 
never  seen  you  like  this  before." 

She  did  not  respond.  He  fell  to  thinking  again;  was 
she  seeing  him  too  often?  If  this  were  so,  it  could  be 
arranged.  If  she  was,  indeed,  reverting  to  trained  feminine 
type,  it  was  because  she  had  never  asked  in  vain  to  see 
him.  It  was  Thursday;  he  would  refuse  to  see  her  again 
till  Monday.  Now  she  had  money  enough  until  she  had 
received  her  pay,  he  need  not  worry  about  her.  Yes,  he 
would  send  her  away  this  evening,  though  it  would  hurt  her. 

"Listen,  petit  Carmen.  This  evening  you  must  go.  I 
feel  as  if  I  want  to  be  alone." 

She  covered  her  face  and  began  to  cry.  Mortimer  set 
his  teeth  and  sat  still,  though  he  could  not  bear  her  crying. 

"You  will  go  now  Carmen." 

"Oh,  Mortimer,  do  not  be  angry  with  me.  I  will  not  be 
naughty  again." 

"But  I  am  not  angry  with  you,  Carmen,"  he  said,  gently. 
' '  You  do  not  understand.  I  want  to  be  alone  this  evening. ' ' 

She  took  her  hat  'and  coat  quietly.  Mortimer  noticed, 
as  for  the  first  time,  how  old  and  shabby  they  were  and  his 
heart  smote  him  for  the  brave  little  woman.  He  was  tempted 
to  let  her  stay,  it  meant  so  much  to  her,  but  he  checked  this 


76  THE  OUTSIDER 

instinct,  thinking  of  future  and  greater  troubles.  He 
helped  her  on  with  her  coat  and  took  her  to  the  door  of  the 
room. 

"Will  you  be  tomorrow  at  the  Lapin  Cuit,  Mortimer?" 

"Non,  man  petit,  only  Monday  evening." 

"Monday!"  She  started  back  as  if  stung.  Mortimer 
set  his  lips. 

"Monday  evening." 

She  stood  before  him  as  if  petrified,  then  she  mastered 
herself  suddenly. 

"Yes,  Monday  evening,"  she  repeated.  "Goodnight, 
Mortimer.  Don't  come  out  of  the  hotel." 

She  offered  her  trembling  lips,  and  as  he  kissed  her,  she 
clung  to  him  and  whispered  fiercely  something  he  could 
not  catch.  When  she  was  gone,  he  felt  a  strange  relief 
which  made  him  thoughtful.  There  was  something  op- 
pressive in  Carmen's  strength,  of  affection.  He  had  not 
meant  things  in  this  way. 

An  hour  later  an  idea  struck  him.  He  turned  out  the 
light  and  went  to  the  window.  Drawing  the  curtain  aside 
a  little,  he  looked  down  into  the  street.  There,  in  the 
broad,  dark  doorway  opposite,  she  was  standing,  her  face 
turned  up  to  his  window. 

He  turned  back  into  the  room,  the  beginnings  of  a  curious 
fear  stirring  in  his  heart. 


CHAPTER  V 

BEFORE  nightfall  on  the  Saturday  following,  Mortimer 
was  walking  slowly  up  and  down  the  central  path  of  the 
Tuileries  Gardens,  tired  of  reading  and  a  little  tired  of 
himself.  Throughout  the  length  of  the  vista,  from  the 
rectangle  of  the  Louvre  away  to  the  stately  Arch  of 
Triumph,  the  leaves  were  falling  apace.  The  quiet  wind 
carried  some  of  them  across  his  path  and  he  trod  on  them 
in  his  walking.  He  watched  them  drifting  obliquely,  turn- 
ing desperately  as  they  drifted,  as  if  in  impotent  protest 
against  their  fall.  He  was  in  mute  sympathy  with  their 
protest;  the  last  memories  of  summer  were  passing  and,  it 
seemed,  no  one  could  do  anything  about  it. 

He  remembered  so  well  having  seen  two  Springs  in  the 
one  year  when  he  came  to  France.  In  the  February  of  that 
year  he  had  seen  the  first  buds  breaking  in  the  trees  scat- 
tered through  the  camp  in  North  Carolina.  The  recollec- 
tion came  over  him  vividly.  There  had  hardly  been  an  in- 
terval between  the  winter  desolation  in  the  camp,  the  frozen 
nights  'and  trees  of  stone,  and  the  mildness  of  Spring,  the 
buds  perching  like  multitudinous  green  swarms  on  the 
twigs,  murmuring  with  their  myriad,  myriad  voices  in 
the  sunlight.  Then  they  had  left  this  camp,  gone  North, 
crossed  the  Atlantic  in  eighteen  dreary  days,  and  returned 
to  winter  desolation  in  France.  There,  in  April  and  May, 
he  had  seen  the  process  repeated,  the  first  shrill  green  start- 
ing on  the  stark  branches,  the  first  spring  winds  consoling 
the  meadows  for  their  long  tribulation.  Now  the  leaves  of 
a  second  year  were  falling  and  his  presence  seemed  an  ac- 
quiescence in  the  tireless  process. 

Assuredly  there  was  something  sadly  naive  about  Nature, 

77 


78  THE  OUTSIDER 

or  how  could  she  go  on  with  the  farce  year  after  year  ?  Did 
not  the  trees  ever  remember,  when  the  joyous  buds  appeared 
on  their  branches,  that  only  a  year  ago,  and  every  year  for 
many  years  past,  the  same  green  freshness  had  appeared, 
and  only  a  few  months  ago  these  leaves  had  fallen,  tattered 
and  sinfully  old  ?  How  did  the  trees  find  the  heart  to  re- 
joice in  the  Spring,  knowing  it  was  all  a  deception  played 
a  thousand  times  over,  a  cruel  joke  with  the  humor  long 
since  evaporated? 

But  he  himself  was  no  better,  for  already  he  looked  for- 
ward with  longing  to  the  Spring,  to  the  newness  and  kind- 
liness of  air  and  light.  Why  did  he  look  forward?  Had 
he  not  passed  through  many  Springs  and  come  to  as  many 
Autumns  and  Winters  ?  Would  this  coming  Spring  be  kind- 
lier than  all  those  that  had  preceded  it  ?  Who  could  say  ? 
Perhaps  it  would.  Perhaps  he  would  not  be  here  in  Paris, 
after  all.  His  eyes  went  back  to  the  book — 

Et  qui,  en  Italic, 
N'a  son  grain  de  folie? 
Qui  ne  donne  aux  amours 
Ses  plus  beaux  jours? 

And  who,  in  Italy, 
Tell  me,  is  folly-free? 
Who  gives  not  to  love's  praise 
His  happiest  days? 

He  looked  up  and  saw  a  familiar  face,  stopped  in  aston- 
ishment, and  rushed  forward  with  outstretched  hand. 

"Odette!" 

The  blond  girl  stopped  as  he  had  stopped,  stared  for  a 
moment,  uttered  a  little  scream,  and  clasped  his  hand  in 
both  of  hers.  "Look!  le  petit  Mortimer." 


THE  OUTSIDER  79 

' '  What  are  you  doing  here  ?  When  did  you  come  ? ' '  The 
questions  danced  on  his  tongue.  He  laughed  with  the  sud- 
den pleasure.  Odette!  Good  old  Odette!  "What  are  you 
doing  in  Paris?"  he  asked  again. 

"Passing  through  it — tomorrow  morning  to  Brussels." 

' '  How  long  have  you  been  here  ? ' ' 

"Since  nine  o'clock  this  morning.  I  came  from  Bor- 
deaux. ' ' 

"What  luck!"  he  burst  out.  He  laughed  again  and 
pressed  her  hand.  "Where  are  you  eating  tonight?" 

"With  my  sister.     She  has  an  apartment  in  Neuilly." 

"Oh  no  you're  not.  You're  eating  with  me  in  the  Rat 
Mort.  Do  you  remember  Peace  Night  in  Bordeaux  ? ' ' 

Her  eyes  sparkled.    "Mais  zoui!" 

"You're  eating  with  me  this  evening,"  he  said  again. 
"Tell  you  what;  I  was  beginning  to  have  the  blues  with 
the  fall  of  the  leaves,  like  the  young  man  going  to  the 
cemetery  in  the  poem  where  the  depouille  de  nos  bois  was 
jonche'd  on  the  earth  and  the  nightingale  was  without  voice. 
You  and  Juliette  shall  dine  with  me  and  my  friend  Ezra. 
Say  oui!  If  you  say  non  I  shall  fall  into  a  sadness,  thence 
into  a  fast,  thence  to  a  watch,  thence  into  a  weakness,  thence 
to  a  lightness  and  by  this  declension  into  the  madness 
wherein  now  I  rave." 

He  delivered  this  rapidly  and  in  curious  French. 

"Oui,  oui,  Mortimer.  It  falls  wells.  We  were  going  to 
have  a  lonely  supper  in  the  apartment.  Think  of  that: 
one  evening  in  Paris  and  that  spent  with  my  sister  in  the 
apartment." 

"Let's  go,  Odette!  We  will  call  for  my  friend  Ezra. 
He's  a  nice  boy.  Then  we'll  go  to  Neuilly  and  bring  Juli- 
ette and  we'll  eat — no,  we'll  eat  at  Monico's  and  we'll  dance 
afterwards;  I  know  a  place  where  they  dance  till  three 


80  THE  OUTSIDER 

in  the  morning.     Do  you   remember   foxtrotting  in   the 
Allee  de  Tourny?" 

They  went  out  towards  the  rue  de  Rivoli.  A  recklessness 
had  descended  on  Mortimer;  the  Winter  was  coming  and 
Spring  was  a  long,  long  way  off.  Were  the  last  memories  of 
Summer  to  die  so  tamely  ?  Perish  the  thought !  One  last 
revel — and  Odette  was  there,  the  merriest  boon  companion 
in  the  world. 

"Taxi!"  They  would  do  everything  in  great  style. 
He  was  sick  of  penuriousness. 

They  climbed  in,  laughing  like  children. 

' '  Hotel  Pieault,  rue  St.  Honore.  And  then  Neuilly  and 
then  Montmartre.  Fast,  chauffeur,  we've  only  one  evening 
in  Paris.  This  is  how  I  love  to  see  Paris  sometimes,  Odette, 
through  a  taxi  window.  To  the  devil  with  private  cars. 
A  man  who  owns  a  private  car  can  fait  la  bombe  every 
evening,  and  there's  no  joy  in  his  life.  But  a  taxi  shows 
you  only  do  it  when  you  feel  like  it — and  have  the  money 
by  chance." 

Odette  put  up  her  dainty  feet  against  the  wall  opposite 
and  took  off  her  hat. 

"Boy!"  she  said,  in  quaint  English.  "Me  no  fait  la 
bombe  since  we  dance  in  Bordeaux.  Me  serieuse.  Tonight 
we  no  sleep — what?" 

"  I  '11  say  not.     Here 's  the  hotel. ' ' 

He  flew  up  two  flights  of  stairs  and  burst  without  knock- 
ing into  Ezra's  room.  Ezra  had  started  up  on  the  couch, 
a  book  in  his  hand. 

"Ezra,  put  on  your  collar.  God  has  sent  us  a  merry 
evening;  we  shall  dance  tonight  and  sing  and  write 
poetry. ' ' 

Rich  put  his  feet  on  the  floor. 

"Who's  come." 

"Odette,  sometime  of  Bordeaux.     She  has  a  sister  called 


THE  OUTSIDER  81 

Juliette.  Make  it  snappy.  There's  a  taxi  waiting  down- 
stairs. ' ' 

Rich  put  a  finger  to  his  nose  and  pretended  to  meditate. 
A  sly  grin  came  over  his  face.  ''Bang  goes  our  savings," 
he  said.  ' '  But  I  never  stand  between  a  man  and  his  dam- 
nation. Have  you  all  your  money  with  you,  pioneers,  0 
pioneers?  I'm  ready." 

He  brushed  his  hair  rapidly  and  put  on  a  collar. 

"Is  she  blond  or  brunette?" 

"Odette  is  blonde  comme  les  bles,"  answered  Mortimer. 
"Her  sister  is  brunette,  witty,  a  dancer  among  a  thousand. " 

"And  the  programme  is?" 

"Supper  at  Monico;  dancing  in  the  Avenue  Montaigne. 
Expense  no  object." 

Rich  put  on  his  overcoat,  snatched  a  walking-stick  from 
a  corner  and  pushed  Mortimer  out  of  doors. 

"I  felt  in  the  sere  and  yellow  leaf  this  evening,"  he 
said,  as  they  ran  downstairs.  "I  must  have  a  shakeup 
at  any  price.  Tonight's  as  good  a  time  as  any.  Tomorrow 
we  can  sleep." 

Mortimer  pulled  open  the  door  of  the  taxi.  "Odette — 
Ezra.  Chauffeur,  rue  Theophile  Gautier,  twenty-five. 
Fast.  Will  your  sister  be  ready,  Odette  ? ' ' 

"She  always  is.  If  she  isn't,  all  the  better.  She'll 
come  as  she  is." 

The  taxi  hummed  through  the  Place  de  la  Concorde,  and 
turned  up  the  right  bank  of  the  river.  Lights  were  be- 
ginning to  spring  up  here  and  there.  The  chauffeur  took 
his  instructions  to  heart  and  went  at  wild  speed  under 
the  trees.  Mortimer  sang  joyously  and  kept  time  with  his 
stick  on  the  window  pane.  Then,  as  his  spirits  rose  higher, 
he  let  down  the  window  and  shouted  rather  than  sang  at 
the  passer-by. 

"There's  something  in  this  place  that  intoxicates  me, 


82  THE  OUTSIDER 

Odette,"  he  explained,  with  eyes  that  flashed.  "Paris  has 
turned  the  corner  of  civilisation — she's  overdone  it  and 
become  primitive  again.  There  you  have  the  secret  of  the 
eternal  process.  Nature  is  always  trying  to  get  round 
herself  and  only  succeeds  in  turning  •  round.  Tarumpty- 
umpty-umpty-um,  tumty-diddle-dyum-tium.  Do  you  re- 
member your  impromptu  Mazurka  on  Peace  night,  in  the 
street?  Sing  us  that  song  again.  Listen,  Ezra," 

Odette  threw  back  her  head  and  sang,  in  a  ringing  voice — 

De  I'Espagne  et  I'Angleterre 
J'ai  goute,  tour  a  tour, 
Le  vin  et  la  blonde  biere, 
Et  I'ivresse,  et  V amour. 
J'ai  vu  des  beaut  es  divines 
Au  pays  du  soleil, 
Me  verser  de  leurs  mains  fines 
Des  nectars,  sans  pareil. 

Mais  malgre  tout  je  garde  en  souvenance 
Ce  bon  pays,  plain  de  vaillance — 
Sainte  Russie  ou  le  vieux  vin  de  France, 
Tout  mousse  d'or,  se  boit  encore. 

Mortimer  hummed  with  her,  radiant.  "Le  vin  et  la 
blonde  biere,  Et  I'ivresse,  et  I 'amour.  Put  that  into 
another  language  and  it  sounds  grossier.  Leave  it  in 
French  and  a  gentleman  can  say  it,  ha?" 

"You  could  eat  all  the  elephants  in  Hindustan  and  pick 
your  teeth  with  the  spire  of  Strassbourg  cathedral?"  sug- 
gested Ezra. 

"I  could  use  the  cover  of  the  Opera  as  a  soup  tureen," 
answered  Mortimer  fiercely,  "and  tickle  a  nostril  with  the 
Eiffel  tower  to  produce  a  sneeze  that  would  shatter  all  the 


THE  OUTSIDER  83 

windows  in  Paris  and  extinguish  the  illuminations  on  the 
Woolworth  building  in  New  York.  I  could  write  poetry  in 
French." 

" There  I  call  your  bluff,"  contradicted  Ezra.  "Drunk 
or  dry  you  couldn't  write  twelve  lines  of  French  verse  to 
scan. ' ' 

"At  dessert,"  said  Mortimer,  magnificently,  "I  shall 
produce  twelve  impeccable  lines,  a  lyric,  a  love-lyric  to 
Odette." 

"We're  here,"  announced  Odette,  as  the  taxi  slowed 
down.  " Wait  for  me  here.  I'll  be  back  in  a  moment  with 
Juliette." 

She  sprang  out  and  rushed  up  to  the  door.  Mortimer 
had  taken  out  a  notebook  and  a  pencil  and  was  frowning 
and  murmuring  to  himself. 

"I'll  show  you,  friend  Ezra  that  an  American,  a  far- 
West  American,  can  write  better  French  than  Oscar 
Wilde,"  he  said,  looking  up. 

"I'll  bet  you  cigars  after  dinner  that  she  don't  scan," 
insisted  Ezra. 

"A  bet,"  said  Mortimer,  at  once.  "And  now  be  quiet." 
He  continued  muttering  to  himself  then,  putting  his  head 
out  of  the  open  window,  asked:  "Monsieur  le  Chauffeur, 
what's  a  good  rhyme  for  masque." 

The  chauffeur  smiled  apologetically.  "Mon  pauvre 
monsieur,  I  do  not  understand  you." 

"Give  me  some  words  ending  in  Asque." 

The  chauffeur  labored.  "Basque,"  he  said,  triumph- 
antly. 

"Thank  you,  my  good  friend."  Mortimer  thought  it 
over,  then  stuck  his  head  from  the  window  again.  "It 
won't  do,  Monsieur  le  chaff eur.  She's  Bearnaise." 

"That's  nearly  Basque,"  said  the  chauffeur. 

"No,  no.     Another  word,  and  with  two  syllables,  please." 


84  THE  OUTSIDER 

The  chauffeur  labored  again,  his  hat  on  the  back  of  his 
head.  "Ma  foi  I'm  not  used  to  it,"  he  said,  after  a  few 
moments.  ''Make  it  esque  or  -isque  and  I'm  your  man." 

"Man,"  said  Mortimer,  hotly.  "There  is  no  accuracy 
in  you.  Asque,  I  must  have  asque." 

"I  can't  help  you,  monsieur,"  said  the  chauffeur,  an- 
noyed. "You  have  an  idee  fixe.  Tiens!"  He  clapped 
his  hands.  "Casque." 

"Thank  you,  but  as  a  rhyme  it  has  only  one  syllable." 

"Well,  do  your  best  with  that  Monsieur  for  the  time 
being,  and  I  will  meanwhile  think  of  another." 

"Chauffeur.  I  see  a  bistro  opposite.  Here  is  five  francs; 
go  and  lubricate,  and  return  with  rhymes  for  masque." 

"I  can  guarantee  nothing,  monsieur,"  said  the  chauffeur, 
taking  the  five-franc  note.  "It  may  be  an  idiot  of  a  pro- 
prietor." 

"I  understand,  I  understand.  We  poets  who  consult 
the  Muse,  sometimes  find  her  an  idiot,  too.  Go,  and  be 
good  luck  thine." 

The  chauffeur  touched  his  hat  and  made  for  the  cafe. 

"Very  obliging,  the  French,"  commented  Mortimer. 
"And  very  intelligent,  too.  You  couldn't  ask  a  New  York 
chauffeur  for  a  rhyme."  He  returned  to  his  note-paper 
and  began  to  mutter  again.  "It's  the  mute  e's,"  he  com- 
plained. "Ha!  Fantasque!" 

"Do  it  quietly,  Mortimer.  You  had  no  right  to  enlist 
the  chauffeur's  help.  He  might  easily  have  been  a  poet." 

The  door  of  the  house  opened  and  both  girls  came  out. 

"You  must  wait  awhile,  mesdames,"  said  Mortimer. 
"The  chauffeur  is  in  the  bistro  opposite  finding  rhymes 
for  casque.  He  has  quite  curious  habits.  Have  you  good 
appetites?  This  is  Juliette,  Ezra.  More  Americans  have 
run  after  Juliette  than  after  the  German  army.  Not  so, 
Juliette?" 


THE  OUTSIDER  85 

"Possibly,  but  not  a  one  caught  me." 

"The  rebuff  polite,"  said  Ezra.  "Fortunately  I'm  a 
civilian. ' ' 

The  chauffeur  returned,  happy,  and  with  a  scrap  of 
paper.  "Monsieur,"  he  said  to  Mortimer,  "the  proprietor 
and  Madame  were  very  kind.  Listen.  I  have  a  fine  list 
— chaste,  vaste,  baste — 

"Enough,"  said  Mortimer,  "enough." 

"Monsieur,  I  have  more." 

"Enough,  I  said  masque,  asque." 

"Nom  de  Dieu,"  swore  the  chauffeur,  "they've  swin- 
dled me.  I  took  an  extra  drink  for  the  rhymes. ' ' 

"No  matter,  chauffeur.  You  know  the  Monico?  Take 
us  thither.  Odette,  Ezra,  Juliette,  my  head  is  full  of  non- 
sense; an  exquisite  vacuity  agitates  my  brain,  and  rosy 
visions  dance  in  the  dead  vast  and  middle  of  my  head. 
Give  me  a  cigarette." 

The  golden  lights  flew  past  the  windows ;  the  wind  came 
in  and  fanned  their  warm  faces,  and  in  the  changing  light 
and  shadow  four  pairs  of  eyes  sparkled.  Odette  hummed 
"Hindustan"  and  their  shoulders  swayed  slightly  and 
suggestively. 

' '  They  have  good  music  at  Monico 's, ' '  said  Odette.  ' '  You 
can't  tell  one  melody  from  another,  except  for  the  rhythm, 
and  the  red  decorations,  I  adore  them.  I  danced  there, 
helas!  three  months  ago,  but  the  darling  captain  went  back 
home.  Ah!  he  could  dance!" 

"The  romance  of  France  streams  back  from  Bordeaux 
and  Brest  and  Saint  Nazaire, ' '  said  Mortimer,  dramatically. 
"And  only  we  remain." 

"Romance  remains  here,"  answered  Ezra,  whose  spirits 
were  mounting,  too.  "Here  in  Paris,  whereof  Solomon 
the  Wise,  my  ancestor,  wrote,  saying  'Romance  crieth  with- 
out ;  she  uttereth  her  voice  in  the  streets,  she  crieth  in  the 


86  THE  OUTSIDER 

chief  Place  of  Concourse  (obviously  a  corruption,  Morti- 
mer, for  the  Place  de  la  Concorde)  in  the  opening  of  the 
gates,  in  the  city  she  uttereth  her  words,  saying,  How  long, 
ye  simple  ones,  will  ye  love  simplicity. ' ' 

"Right,  right,  I  am  rebuked,"  chanted  Mortimer.  "Ro- 
mance remains;  the  captains  and  the  things  depart.  I  could 
be  Teuf elsdreck  and  hug  the  great  city  to  my  bosom. ' ' 

He  collapsed  suddenly  into  a  musing.  As  voices  and 
forms  and  shadows  and  bursts  of  light  flew  by  the  win- 
dows, a  keen  regret  for  the  time  that  was  passing  descended 
on  him.  How  swiftly  all  things  moved;  the  heart  scarce 
had  time  to  beat  fast,  the  blood  could  scarce  run  once 
round  the  little  veins,  and  the  morning  would  be  here ;  and 
all  the  wildness  of  the  evening  and  all  his  exaltation  would 
be  sighs.  If  he  could  only  take  it,  hold  it  long  enough 
to  have  his  fill. 

The  roaring  Boulevard  de  la  Madeleine  went  by,  clamor 
and  kaleidoscope,  wheels  and  lamps  and  laughing  faces, 
and  leaves  shaking  green-gold;  and  then  the  long  dark 
Chaussee  d ' Antin  and  the  purring  climb  of  the  rue  Blanche. 

The  taxi  stopped  and  a  courteous  chasseur  opened  the 
door. 

' '  The  prologue  is  over, ' '  said  Mortimer,  paying  the  chauf- 
feur, "now  is  the  feast  and  the  third  act  of  the  imperial 
theme." 

The  crimson  rooms  of  the  Monico,  behind  the  curtained 
and  shuttered  windows,  glowed  to  greet  them.  The  tables 
were  still  half  guestless,  but  the  world  was  arriving,  young 
men,  bearded  men,  American  officers,  princely  in  their  uni- 
forms, ladies  with  bare  shoulders  and  abashless  brows, 
shining  like  the  bald  heads  of  some  of  their  companions. 
The  orchestra  was  still  as  they  came  in;  glasses  clicked 
and  waitresses  like  dolls,  all  smiles  and  spotless  pinafores, 
went  automatically  from  table  to  table. 


THE  OUTSIDER  87 

They  found  a  good  place  in  a  corner,  at  an  angle  of 
mirrors.  Mortimer  took  the  carte  with  a  lordly  gesture. 

"Once  upon  a  time,  Odette,"  he  said,  "it  was  my  am- 
bition to  take  dinner  thus —  '  and  with  one  hand  he  cov- 
ered the  prices  while  he  showed  her  the  menu.  "Since 
then  I  have  realised  my  ambition  and  tonight  we  shall 
repeat  it." 

"Mon  vieux,  we  have  all  been  there,"  answered  Odette. 
"And  we'll  be  there  again,  with  God's  help.  "What  shall 
we  start  on?" 

The  waitress  stood  attentive  at  the  corner  of  the  table, 
her  head  cocked  on  one  side,  as  if  waiting  for  pleasant 
news.  Mortimer  rolled  the  menu  off  like  a  poem.  ' '  Some- 
thing solid  this  evening,"  he  said.  "We  have  a  hard 
night's  work — seven  hours  of  dancing,  what?  Oh,  listen." 
The  orchestra  was  playing  "Allah's  Holiday."  He  sprang 
up.  "Ezra,  order  the  dinner  and  wait  for  the  wine  until 
I  come  back.  Odette,  a  moi!" 

Odette  was  almost  as  tall  as  Mortimer,  but  strong  and 
infinitely  supple.  She  danced  like  a  whirlwind,  terrific 
even  in  calmness.  There  was  a  fixed  smile  on  her  lips, 
intense  almost  to  fierceness,  but  her  body,  intoxicated  and 
intoxicating,  laughed  freely  in  movement.  Hysteria 
mounted  into  Mortimer's  brain 

The  music  stopped  and  Mortimer  woke.  "God  bless  the 
niggers,"  he  said,  as  he  went  back  to  the  table.  "But  my 
opinion  is  that  David'danced  a  fox-trot  in  front  of  the  Ark ; 
what's  your  opinion,  Ezra?" 

"I've  ordered  a  Hors-d'oeuvre,  varic,  preceded  by  cock- 
tail," answered  Ezra.  "Then  chicken  fricasse  and  lobster 
salade.  Then  Gruyere  and  fruit.  David  did  a  pas  seul 
before  the  Ark,  of  course,  dancing  being  then  in  its  celibacy. 
What  wine  are  we  going  to  drink?  Champagne?" 


88  THE  OUTSIDER 

"You  are  vulgar,  Ezra.  Champagne  is  the  common- 
place of  Croesus.  What  do  the  ladies  suggest?" 

"A  simple  Chdblis,"  suggested  Juliette. 

' '  No,  no, ' '  said  Ezra.  ' '  I  never  could  tolerate  that  wine 
since  Browning  made  it  rhyme  with  Rabelais." 

"St.  Emilion,"  said  Odette. 

"I  have  it,"  said  Mortimer,  hitting  the  table.  "Asti! 
Asti  Spumante,  the  sunshine  of  Italy,  the  warm  smiles 

"Asti,"  interrupted  Ezra.  "Let  it  be  Asti  without 
further  description.  Asti  on  ice.  And,  Mortimer,  drink 
well.  At  dessert  you  shall  read  a  love-poem  to  Odette. ' ' 

* '  Have  no  fear.  I  work  like  Wordsworth ;  I  get  the  lines 
in  my  head  first.  Has  anyone  here  ever  got  drunk  on 
Astif  Erstwhile  the  Cossack  got  drunk  on  Vodka,  the 
German  on  beer,  the  American  on  cocktails,  but  the  prince 
still  gets  drunk  on  Asti.  Oh  to  roam  beneath  the  stars 
when  you're  drunk  on  Asti." 

"Drink  cocktails  and  be  sick,"  agreed  Juliette.  "Drink 
Asti  and  die — though  I've  never  drunk  Asti." 

"My  test  of  drinks,"  said  Ezra,  "is  like  Heine's — the 
nose.  You  remember* 

Der  Rheinwein  gldnzt  noch  immer  wie  Gold 
Im  griinen  Romerglase, 
Und  trinkt  man  etwelche  Schoppen  zu  viel, 
So  steigt  er  in  die  Nose.  • 

In  die  Nose  steigt  ein  Prickeln  so  suss 
Man  kann  sich  vor  Wonne  nicht  lassen. 

I  always  tell  a  good  wine  by  the  singing  in  my  nose." 

"There's  something  in  it,"  said  Mortimer,  considering. 
"In  your  theory,  I  mean.  Also  all  good  singing  is  done 
through  the  nose,  though  I  don't  know  that  that  remark 
is  at  all  relevant.  But  there's  a  limitation  to  the  theory; 


THE  OUTSIDER  89 

it's  absurd  to  say,  'I'm  beginning  to  get  drunk,  my  nose 
is  going  round.'  ' 

"Change  it  to  'growing  round'  and  it  sounds  better," 
said  Ezra.  "That's  the  feeling.  It  becomes  a  nose  like 
Cyrano's.  Nay,  there's  something  detached  and  imper- 
sonal in  my  nose  when  I'm  nearly  drunk." 

"But  you  can't  say  my  nose  is  going  round,"  said  Mort- 
imer, insistently.  "Going  round  where?  It's  ridiculous. 
Here  come  the  cocktails  of  my  native  land.  The  tiny 
lemon  tints  the  liquid  with  its  pallid  saffron  hue.  Let's 
drink  and  be  damned." 

With  the  cocktails  came  the  first  course  and  the  eating 
began.  Then  came  the  Asti,  and  the  waitress  began  to  open 
the  first  bottle. 

1  ( What  a  theme  for  a  sculptor, ' '  said  Mortimer.  ' '  Wait- 
ress opening  a  bottle  of  Asti.  Look  at  the  tense  features, 
the  expectation.  Waitress,  bring  a  second  bottle ;  we  never 
wait  between  drinks.  Ah,  the  Boston!  A  moi,  Odette!" 

The  cork  came  out  with  a  pistol  crack  as  they  left  the 
table  to  dance;  when  they  came  back  a  second  bottle  was 
leaning  its  head  languorously  against  the  first  in  the  ice- 
pail.  Ezra  filled  the  champagne-glasses. 

"A  fool  of  a  man,"  he  observed  slowly,  as  he  went  ten- 
derly from  glass  to  glass,  "has  said  that  the  test  of  cham- 
pagne is  to  let  it  stand  in  a  glass.  If  it  still  bubbles  at  the 
end  of  six  weeks  it  was  good  champagne.  What  a  moral ! 
What  folly!  Wisdom  testing  life  and  finding  it  good — 
too  late.  The  eternal  theme.  It  inspires  me.  Mortimer, 
a  toast." 

Mortimer  rose,  disdainful  of  public  attention.  He  lifted 
his  glass. 

"I  drink,"  he  said  with  dignity,  "to  first  and  last 
things,  to  the  dear  and  ineffable  impulses  of  our  immemorial 
heritage,  of  forgotten  ages  and  generations  yet  to  be;  I 


90  THE  OUTSIDER 

drink  to  the  immortal  spirit  which,  from  end  to  end  of  the 
universe,  with  pomp  and  music  as  at  the  coming  of  kings, 
trembling  through  spaces  lightless  arid  lonely  as  the  tre- 
mendous dreams  of  poets,  unfettered  as  they — as  it — no, 
as  they." 

"Sit  down,  Mortimer.  The  waiters '11  think  you're  call- 
ing them." 

Mortimer  sat  down.  "I  drink  to  that  anyway,"  he  said 
firmly.  "You  can  drink  to  whatever  you  like.  Person- 
filly  I  think  that  mine's  entitled  to  two  drinks." 

The  glasses  clinked.  After  the  first  sip  all  four  looked 
up  at  each  other,  then  went  back  to  their  glasses. 

"Exquisite,"  said  Odette.  "The  first  glass  is  like  the 
memory  of  a  caress." 

"  Ah, "  said  Mortimer.     '  *  Wait  till  the  last  glass. ' ' 

"It  is  a  good  wine,"  said  Ezra.  "I  speak  before  my 
nose. ' ' 

"Beneath  it,"  suggested  Mortimer. 

"My  nose,  like  Heine's"  explained  Ezra,  "doesn't  speak 
before  the  second  or  third  glass.  But  it 's  sentence  is  final. ' ' 

"When  the  glass  is  empty,"  said  Mortimer,  "the  ghost 
of  the  Asti  haunts  the  little  place  under  the  tongue  and 
waits  for  its  brothers." 

Ezra,  with  his  mouth  full,  refilled  the  glasses. 

"The  wine  keeps  good  company.  This  fricassee  was  made 
for  it.  I  confess  naively  I  do  enjoy  eating  chicken  fric- 
assee and  drinking  Asti  Spumante." 

Odette  nodded  eagerly.  "I  understand  you,  monsieur 
Ezra.  First,  it's  so  pleasant  to  chew  the  one  and  to  drink 
the  other.  They  fill  the  mouth  so;  then  their  passage  to 
the  stomach  is  so  comfortable.  And  afterwards  they  pack 
in  so  comfortably,  so  snugly,  into  your  stomach,  and  radiate 
sympathy.  Isn't  that  what  you  mean?" 

"I  do  mean  that,   and   something  more,"  said   Ezra, 


THE  OUTSIDER  01 

drinking  again.  "When  I  eat  and  drink  well  I  am  reduced 
to  common  mortality ;  I  come  out  of  the  insufferable  lone- 
liness of  my  individuality.  I  take  on  dear  and  vulgar 
attributes;  I  grow  friendly  to  the  world  in  general.  I 
respect  large  families;  I  hear  again  the  Virgin's  Prayer, 
and  I  pray  for  her,  too.  Oh  the  marriages  I  could  have 
contracted  when  drunk." 

' '  That 's  woman 's  old  privilege, ' '  said  Juliette,  ' '  to  make 
a  man  drunk  and  marry  him." 

"Ah,  one  did  that  once  to  me,"  recounted  Ezra,  "but 
she  got  stung.  I  got  so  drunk  that  while  she  was  away 
for  a  moment  the  impulse  came  over  me,  and  I  proposed 
to  somebody  else.  But  it  didn't  matter,  because  the  next 
morning  I  couldn't  quite  remember  whom  I  had  proposed 
to." 

"That  would  never  happen  to  me,"  said  Mortimer, 
shaking  his  head.  "Because  I'm  never  so  sober  as  when 
I'm  drunk.  The  woman  who  exercised  her  old  privilege 
on  me  would  back  a  loser."  He  emptied  his  third  glass. 
"I  grow  sentimental,  perhaps  maudlin;  but  my  sense  of 
mathematics  stays.  My  senses  are  drunk,  but  my  mind 
stands  at  a  distance  and  speaks  in  accents  clear." 

"That's  your  fatal  illusion,"  said  Ezra,  laughing.  "It 
was  mine.  You  feel  logical  when  you're  drunk;  you  feel 
as  though  you  understood  everything,  from  the  binomial 
to  the  innermost  emotions  of  the  persons  you  are  drinking 
with;  you  feel  omniscient,  coldly,  immaculately  analytical. 
But  you're  not;  you're  only  drunk." 

"How's  your  nose.  Ezra." 

Ezra  tapped  it  thoughtfully  \fith  his  forefinger,  frowned, 
arid  then  looked  up  happily.  ' '  The  first  tender  detachment 
is  already  there, ' '  he  announced.  ' '  I  feel  a  sort  of  growing 
unfeelingness  in  my  nose.  She  is  asserting  a  faintly  glow- 
ing independence." 


92  THE  OUTSIDER 

s  . 

^Mortimer  felt  his  own  nose  carefuUy  for  a  little  while. 
"My  nose  is  teetotal,  I  think.  I'm  beginning  to  feel 
friendly,  but  my  nose  is  unmoved." 

VThe  first  effects  of  the  wine  were  indeed  coming  over 
hflh;  there  was  gladness  in  his  heart  as  he  looked  round 
the  room;  there  was  a  special  warmth  on  the  crimson 
walls  and  on  the  faces  of  the  men  and  women.  Voices  were 
receding  from  him.  The  room  and  its  occupants  took  on 
a  certain  sublety  of  being,  a  fine  tone  and  coloring  not 
hitherto  observable.  He  marked  these  symptoms  in  him- 
self with  distinct  and  deliberate  satisfaction,  and  noted 
with  pride  that  he  was  keeping  check  on  them;  he  was 
even  slightly  gleeful,  as  though  the  wine  was  trying  to 
fool  him  and  was  failing. 

' '  If  all  the  world  could  be  made  drunk  simultaneously ! ' ' 
said  Ezra  with  a  sigh,  from  a  distance.  "Imagine  the 
civilising  result." 

"It  couldn't  be,"  objected  Mortimer.  "If  we  were 
drunk  here  at  midnight  it  would  be  mid-day  at  Waikiki. 
It  isn't  the  same  sensation,  drunk  at  noon  and  drunk  at 
midnight." 

"Imagine  a  simultaneous  and  world-wide  drunk,"  con- 
tinued Ezra,  "the  boundaries  of  people  crossed  by  one 
throb.  Nations  will  embrace;  diplomats  will  send  words 
of  love  from  country  to  country  at  war.  Think  of  it!" 

"It  could  be  done,"  suddenly  agreed  Mortimer.  "Set 
the  clocks  as  for  daylight  saving;  fool  them  into  thinking 
it's  midnight  the  world  over.  Mustn't  do  it  at  once, 
though.  Half-an-hour  every  year,  so  they  won't  notice 
it.  In  twenty-years  or  so  you'll  be  all  set;  meanwhile 
perfect  your  organisation.  It's  an  inspiration,  Ezra.  You 
can  repeal  the  dry-laws  by  that  time,  or  get  a  Papal  dis- 
pensation for  the  occasion." 


THE  OUTSIDER  93 

"Why  are  the  glasses  empty?"  asked  Ezra.  "Juliette, 
fill  the  glasses;  I  feel  too  inspired." 

Juliette's  face  was  flushed,  red  blood  through  the  brown 
skin.  Under  her  brows  her  eyes  were  wide  and  lustrous. 
Odette's  blond  skin  was  tinged  with  color.  She  leaned 
her  head  on  Juliette 's  shoulder,  and  laughed  for  no  reason. 
Then  the  orchestra  began  "Hindustan,"  and  the  four  were 
on  their  feet  simultaneously. 

Ah,  now  dancing  was  dancing.  Under  Mortimer's  feet 
there  was  no  floor — only  resistance  to  his  footsteps. 
"Odette!  If  I  could  only  dance  myself  away!"  He 
moved  without  muscles,  without  effort;  he  was  drunker 
with  motion  than  with  wine.  The  world  was  deliriously 
happy. 

Three  bottles  were  done  for,  and  the  waitress  was  open- 
ing a  fourth.  Mortimer  wondered  mutely  when  such  an 
evening  would  return;  when  would  he  feel  again  as  now? 

"Thou  canst  not  tell  how  ill  all's  about  my  heart,"  said 
Ezra,  softly,  in  English. 

"I  know,"  said  Mortimer,  suddenly  taking  over  Ezra's 
depression.  "Just  now  I  feel  the  extremities  of  life  as 
never  before.  How  merry  life  is,  and  how  sad !  How  beau- 
tiful are  human  beings — and  how  ridiculous !  What  angels, 
what  animals!  Look  at  those  women  over  there.  Their 
brows  and  cheeks  glow  and  call  all  men;  there  is  a  glory 
on  their  lips — and  what  is  that  glory  ? ' ' 

Ezra  felt  his  nose  tenderly  and  smiled  a  sad  smile.  ' '  The 
glory  that  is  grease,  I  should  call  it.  Think  of  half  the  world 
just  now,  Mortimer,  asleep  like  hogs,  snoring,  and  we  here 
conscious  of  the  beauty  and  sadness  of  the  world. ' ' 

' '  Yes,  I  'm  thinking  of  it, ' '  concurred  Mortimer.  ' '  Every- 
body except  those  revelling  with  us  in  a  few  cabarets. ' ' 

"And  those  on  beds  in  French  hotels,"  added  Ezra. 
"Those  don't  do  much  sleeping." 


94  THE  OUTSIDER 

"Shut  up,  Ezra,  you're  gross." 

"  'Tis  now  the  very  itching  hour  of  night,"  quoted  Ezra 
solemnly. 

"I  drink  this  time,"  said  Mortimer  to  the  table,  raising 
his  glass,  "to  all  revellers,  here  and  elsewhere,  the  few 
choice  spirits  enjoying  life  the  wide  world  over.  I  feel 
their  merriment  and  revelry  linked  across  the  night." 

"Ayont  the  seas,  ayont  the  seas,"  said  Ezra,  "don't  for- 
get that.  Still,  I  do  feel  a  dreadful  sickness  in  my  heart, ' ' 
and  he  leaned  his  head  on  Mortimer's  shoulder. 

"  So  do  I, "  groaned  Mortimer.  ' '  The  melancholy  of  life 
will  not  be  exorcised.  I'm  getting  dmnk  and  my  mind 
beats  its  normal  bars.  I  see  the  beginning  and  the  end,  the 
effort  and  the  futility,  the  silly  dignity  of  mankind.  Of 
what  scenes  the  actors  or  specters,  I  mean,  spectators?" 

His  mind  told  him  he  was  talking  nonsense,  and  the 
horrible  sadness  in  his  heart  rebuked  that  nonsense,  but  he 
wanted  to  talk. 

"Why  are  we  here?"  he  asked  vaguely.  "Or  perhaps, 
stay!"  An  idea  struck  him.  "Perhaps  we  are  not  here. 
Then  why  are  we  elsewhere  ?  Anyway,  why  are  we  where 
we  are? 

"Shut  up,  Mortimer.  Look  at  Odette  dancing  with  that 
American  officer." 

"So  she  is,"  agreed  Mortimer,  surprised.  "Bless  my 
soul !  But  never  mind  her.  Why  are  we  here  ? ' ' 

"Ah,"  murmured  Ezra,  "why  indeed?  Because  of  the 
worm  that  dieth  not."  A  trace  of  mockery  came  into  his 
voice,  then  he  came  to  himself.  ' '  To  hell  with  memories, ' ' 
he  exclaimed.  "It's  a  scandal,  the  way  we  let  them  dance 
with  others.  Pity  that  Carmen  and  Mado  don't  fit  in 
with  this  kind  of  thing,  poor  kids. ' ' 

The  same  thought  had  just  came  to  Mortimer,  and  with 


THE  OUTSIDER  95 

it  a  sense  of  meanness.  But  he  shook  himself  and  drank 
a  little  more  wine. 

"You're  right,  Ezra,"  he  said.  "To  hell  with  mem- 
ories if  you  have  any.  If  you  must  be  melancholy,  let  it 
be  the  pure  rosy  melancholy  of  wine,  the  infinite  tenderness 
of  the  grape. ' ' 

Suddenly  he  began  to  laugh  as  he  caught  a  glimpse  of 
his  own  maudlin  condition.  How  ridiculous  everybody  was ! 
Merriment  returned  in  a  wild  flood  to  his  heart.  He  laughed 
till  the  tears  dropped  down  his  cheeks.  Juliette  and  Odette, 
returning,  found  them  both  in  convulsions  of  laughter. 
They  stood  looking  in  a  dazed  way  at  the  men,  the  laughter 
hesitating  on  their  own  faces. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you  people?"  said  Odette, 
beginning  to  laugh. 

"But  nothing  at  all,"  Ezra  gasped,  and  laughed  louder. 
"I  don't  know  what  there  is  to  laugh  about;  Mortimer 
doesn't  know." 

"  I  'm  thirsty, ' '  said  Juliette.  ' '  I  hope  you  '11  finish  laugh- 
ing before  the  next  dance." 

Mortimer  recovered  control  of  himself. 

"  I  'm  sorry, ' '  he  said,  wiping  his  eyes.  "  I  'm  very  sorry. 
We  both  hit  a  vein  of  recollections  and  got  sentimental.  I 
do  hope  you'll  forgive  us  for  having  let  you  dance  wifh 
somebody  else  without  a  protest." 

"I'm  not  dancing  any  more  for  a  while,"  said  Odette, 
sinking  into  a  chair.  "I  want  a  rest  in  the  head  and  feet. 
The  wine's  getting  me  at  last.  But  give  me  just  a  little 
more. ' ' 

Glasses  were  filled  again.  Suddenly  Ezra  hit  the  table. 
"We've  forgotten,"  he  said,  quickly. 

"What?" 

"That  poem  of  Mortimer's.  He  nearly  got  away  with  the 
bluff.  Where's  that  poem,  my  lad?" 


96  THE  OUTSIDER 

"What  time  is  it?"  asked  Mortimer,  desperately. 

"It's  nearly  midnight.  If  there's  any  clarity  in  your 
mind  produce  that  poem.  It  was  promised  for  dessert. ' ' 

Mortimer  pulled  out  a  scrap  of  paper.  "Five  minutes 
more, ' '  he  begged. 

"Five  minutes.  If  the  twelve  lines  are  not  complete  by 
then  you  not  only  buy  cigars,  but  confess  publicly  that 
you're  perfectly  sober." 

Mortimer  gathered  himself  together  for  an  intensive 
effort.  He  surprised  himself  by  a  feeling  akin  to  inspira- 
tion. The  lines  flew  out  from  under  his  pencil.  The  others 
watched,  Ezra  with  his  eyes  on  the  clock.  Before  the  five 
minutes  were  over  Mortimer  raised  his  head. 

"Done!"  he  shouted.  "Listen."  He  cleared  his  throat 
ostentatiously  and,  in  a  moved  voice,  read  to  Odette. 

Charmante  Odette,  dans  tes  yeux  gais  et  fantasques 
L' amour  parle  et  rit  comme  a  travers  une  masque; 
J'ose  te  regarder  une  fois,  deux  fois,  trois — 
Si  je  regarde  encore  c'est  la  fin  de  moi. 

Sur  tes  levres  rhythmiques,  donees  comme  la  mort, 

Le  secret  eternel  de  I' existence  dort. 

Enivre  de  ta  voix,  et  du  vin  que  j'ai  bu, 

Je  m'avoue  franchement,  completement  foutu. 

O  sois  certaine,  toi,  je  ne  suis  pas  le  seul 
Qui  envers  la  folie  fut  pousse  par  ta  gueule. 
Et  Dieu  meme  s'il  t'avait  connu  d'assez  bonne 
'Heure  t'aurait  Men  preferee  a  la  Ma-donne. 

Odette  and  Juliette  applauded  rapturously.  Ezra  was 
unmoved.  "You  can  buy  me  a  good  fat  cigar,"  he  said. 
"Seul  is  a  false  rhyme  with  gueule." 


THE  OUTSIDER  97 

"Ta  gueule,"  said  Mortimer,  rudely.  "You  haven't  a 
spark  of  generosity  in  your  soul.  I'll  buy  you  a  fat  cigar 
out  of  sympathy  with  your  condition,  but  you  need  still 
more  a  straight- jacket  and  a  seat  in  the  Aeademie.  Odette, 
are  you  satisfied  with  the  poem  ? ' ' 

"Mon  vieux,  I  begin  to  fear  you  love  me.  I've  never  had 
a  poem  like  that  written  to  me  before.  I  understand  every 
line  of  it." 

"There  you  are,  Ezra.  And  if  you  don't  like  it,  I'll 
write  another." 

"No,  no,  the  place  closes  in  fifteen  minutes.  There's  only 
time  for  one  more  dance. ' ' 

"I  dance  no  more  here,"  said  Odette,  her  head  drooping. 
' '  Oh,  I  'm  tired.  It  was  a  beautiful  poem.  I  've  never  had 
one  like  that  written  to  me  before. ' '  She  drank  more  wine. 
' '  Once  a  boy  used  to  write  poems  to  me,  when  I  was  young 
and  quite  innocent." 

' '  0  Lord, ' '  groaned  Mortimer,  "  it 's  her  turn  now.  She 's 
getting  sentimental.  Give  me  something  to  drink." 

"I'm  not  getting  sentimental,"  said  Odette,  raising  her 
head.  But  there  were  sudden  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"Yes  you  are,  0  yes  you  are,"  contradicted  Mortimer. 

"I  tell  you  I'm  not."    She  stamped  her  foot  furiously. 

' '  Yes — you — are.    There  are  tears  in  your  eyes. ' ' 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  and  a  look  of  irrepress- 
ible amusement  came  over  her  face. 

"Oh  you  sentimental  boy!  That's  the  gas  from  the 
Asti  Spumanti  coming  back  through  my  nose  and  bringing 
the  water  to  my  eyes ! ' ' 

Mortimer  sprang  to  his  feet.  "Odette,  you  are  the  per- 
fect cynic.  I  wouldn't  exchange  your  revelation  for  an 
epigram  of  Voltaire's.  Good  Heavens!"  He  had  sat  down 
suddenly.  "I  can't  stand  straight,"  he  said  to  the  table 
in  an  intense  whisper.  "C'est  magnifique.  Ezra,  I  don't 


98  THE  OUTSIDER 

know  what  this  feeling  costs,  but  I  wouldn't  over-rate  its 
value  at  ten  thousand  francs.  I  think  I'm  there  now." 

His  voice  was  rich  and  suggestive  of  a  powerful  sub- 
current  of  sensations.  He  did  not,  indeed,  see  double,  but 
everything  was  there  with  an  intense  reality  before  un- 
known, intensely,  individual,  and  yet  mingling  in  a  great, 
glowing  harmoniousness.  He  was  infinitely  pleased  with 
himself;  he  forgave  the  world.  Scraps  of  philosophy,  lilts 
of  lines  and  random  rhymes  danced  through  his  brain.  He 
saw  all  his  life,  he  was  conscious  of  all  he  knew;  the  sub- 
conscious floated  up  to  the  surface;  the  elusive  echoes  of 
impressions  that  haunted  the  dark  caves  of  his  mind  turned 
into  a  tumult  of  ringing  voices;  everything  he  had  ever 
thought,  felt,  suspected,  believed,  understood,  all  things  he 
had  seen,  loved,  hated,  all  physical  experiences,  everything  in 
his  life,  was  there  in  him  at  that  moment.  He  was  furiously 
alive.  What  a  vast  number  of  things  he  knew!  so  many 
people,  so  many  books,  streets,  numbers  in  them,  houses', 
telephone  numbers — why,  he  could  remember  the  telephone 
number  of  his  father's  friend  in  New  York,  whatsisname 's 
— "Columbus  3847"  he  said  aloud,  victoriously.  He  could 
remember  the  shape  of  parson  Prentice's  nose.  Fancy  re- 
membering so  much — chemical  formulas,  types  of  printing, 
how  to  typewrite,  shorthand,  French,  German,  the  appear- 
ances of  different  foods — what  a  terrible  medley,  terrible, 
terrible ! 

' '  The  number  of  things  a  human  being  is  called  upon  to 
know, ' '  he  said,  hitting  the  table,  ' '  is  beyond  computation. 
You  don 't  know  what  I  'm  talking  about,  but  I  do.  My  line 
of  thought  is  'dear,  although  you  can 't  follow  it. ' ' 

He  chuckled,  tickled  to  the  marrow  by  the  idea  that  they 
really  could  not  know  what  he  was  talking  about.  He  did 
not  care.  Look  at  all  those  people  and  hear  their  voices; 
none  of  them  know  what  anybody  else  is  thinking.  That 


THE  OUTSIDER  99 

is  sad,  very  sad ;  it  is  the  tragedy  of  life,  and  the  climax  of 
the  tragedy  is  that  they  will  persist  in  trying.  What  was 
the  good  of  telling  them  not  to  try?  Could  the  course  of 
life,  or  the  habits  of  human  beings,  be  changed?  Could 
one  run  wildly  amok  and  scream,  "You  fools,  you  fools, 
why  do  you  do  these  things?"  No,  one  could  not  do  that 
even  if  one  was  drunk.  The  world  was  vast,  vast;  it 
swarmed  everywhere. 

"It's  no  use  writing  books,"  he  said,  with  profound  con- 
viction. "Because  only  a  few  people  understand,  and 
they're  the  ones  that  don't  need  the  books.  Once  upon  a 
time  I  thought  that  surely  after  Dickens  had  written 
Christmas  Carol  no  Scrooges  could  possibly  exist.  For 
they  would  read  Christmas  Carol,  and  feel  so  self-con- 
scious, that  they  would  disappear.  I  used  to  think  that  no 
more  Jack-in-offices  could  be  impertinent ;  they  only  existed 
in  books,  as  a  dreadful  memory  and  a  warning  to  men  not 
to  be  so ;  no  bullies,  no  vulgar  parvenus.  When  I  read  new 
novels  with  such  characters  in  them  I  think  they  are  no 
longer  taken  from  life.  But  they're  all  there,  after  all, 
and  you  can't  change  the  world,  you  can't  change  the 
world." 

Ezra  said  something  in  reply  that  did  not  reach  him. 
Yes,  Ezra  always  had  a  reply  on  hand.  The  whole  world 
was  like  that.  You  say  something  that  is  so  obviously  true, 
and  then  somebody  goes  and  makes  a  reply  to  it,  and  the 
whole  effect  is  spoilt.  And  then  where  are  we?  Was  it 
not  better  not  to  say  anything  to  anybody. 

"Yes,  by  God!"  he  exclaimed,  hitting  the  table  again. 
' '  Everybody  should  keep  quiet  and  put  up  with  everything, 
because  it's  no  use  talking." 

The  world  was  dreadfully  obstinate — people  were  so 
tenacious.  You  'd  think  they  'd  reflect ;  perhaps  they  weren  't 
cutting  a  nice  figure — but  they  didn't  care.  You'd  think  a 


100  THE  OUTSIDER 

landlord  would  be  ashamed  to  ask  so  much  rent,  a  husband 
would  be  ashamed  to  bully  his  wife;  but  they're  not.  Life 
is  shameless;  people  go  on  as  they  are,  mean,  scurrying, 
egotistical.  They  should  worry  as  to  the  impression  they 
make  on  a  few  sensitive  and  gentle  minds ! 

"They  are  the  salt  of  the  earth,"  he  said,  sadly,  "the 
few  quiet,  gentle  spirits,  who  have  a  sense  of  the  fitness  of 
things,  the  unvulgar  ones."  Yes,  that  was  it.  The  world 
was  essentially  vulgar,  life  was  vulgar;  the  struggle  for 
existence,  the  economic  struggle,  the  strutting  of  the  sexes 
— all,  all,  a  welter  of  vulgarity,  cheap  shamelessness.  And 
the  few  gentle  spirits  in  their  modest  corners,  shrinking 
from  the  screaming  mob  with  its  vile  colors  and  odors — 
yes,  a  few  gentlemen  in  the  whole  world,  a  few  in  every 
great  city;  and  the  rest  was  still  the  spawning,  squirming 
struggle  of  the  mire.  Life  didn't  care,  didn't  care. 

"Oh  God,"  he  said  harshly,  "if  one  could  only  take  the 
world  by  the  throat,  fix  its  attention  for  one  moment,  and 
say  to  it :  '  Thus  and  thus  you  are,  you  are  vile,  cruel,  un- 
dignified. Why  won't  you  Be  otherwise?'  But  they  won't 
pay  any  attention;  if  you  committed  suicide  in  protest, 
they  wouldn't  give  a  damn." 

Had  not  the  prophets  thundered,  thousands  of  years  ago  ? 
And  Oh,  such  great  men  had  lived  and  died,  and  wonderful 
thoughts  had  come  to  birth,  and  wonderful  words  had  come 
into  the  sunlight — and  it  was  all  the  same,  all  the  same. 
And  why? 

"I  have  it,"  he  shouted.  "It's  because  great  men  are  just 
as  blind  as  little  men,  and  there  is  genius  lent  to  evil  as 
well  as  to  good." 

That  was  it!  How  clearly  he  could  see  now.  Cassar's 
genius  and  Christ's,  Napoleon's  and  Shelley's.  Genius  was 
wayward,  and  great  men  shook  the  world  with  their  foot- 
steps, but  moved  it  not.  How  could  the  masses  know,  when 


THE  OUTSIDER  101 

great  men  themselves  were  at  such  odds  ?  To  follow  Cassar 
or  Christ?  And  why  follow  either? 

Yes,  he  saw  all  things  clearly;  the  world  lay  in  lustrous 
clearness  before  him,  but  his  tongue  could  not  find  words 
for  all  he  saw.  Could  he  only  utter  this  great  marvel,  or 
could  he  keep  this  inspiration  while  he  labored  closely  for 
years,  he  would  produce  one  of  the  greatest  books  ever 
written.  Yes,  ideas  rushed  through  his  mind  like  a  great, 
broad  water ;  he  could  understand  the  causes  of  many  things. 
He  could  talk  even  now  and  astonish  .  .  .  whom? 
What  was  the  good  of  astonishing  anybody?  Yes,  one 
turned  in  the  same  vicious  circle.  Talking  and  thinking 
were  useless,  except  as  an  amusement. 

"Amusement?"  he  echoed  sharply,  "amusement  be 
damned.  It's  positively  painful." 

Thinking,  thinking,  thinking,  all  the  time.  The  world, 
the  horrible,  vulgar  world,  didn't  think.  It  just  was;  it 
went  on,  so  convinced  every  day  of  its  importance.  Every 
generation  believed  in  itself !  Marvellous !  It  called  other 
generations  "the  past,"  with  a  kind  of  tacit  contempt. 
"That's  the  past."  Yes,  but  once  they,  those  past  gen- 
erations, also  thought  they^were  "it,"  just  as  well  as  you 
do — and  soon  even  you  will  be  "the  past."  Every  nation 
and  generation  thought  itself  the  climax  of  time,  the  final 
verdict  of  history,  the  last,  last  thing.  It  never  saw  itself 
as  a  tiny,  tiny,  indistinguishable  link  in  an  infinite,  a  crush- 
ingly  infinite  process,  a  chain  stretching  from  dimness  to 
dimness.  No,  that  was  the  vulgarity  of  the  generations! 
they  were  like  that  in  great  things  and  in  little,  philosophies 
and  governments,  modes  and  affectations.  The  Assyrian 
must  have  thought  himself  no  end  of  a  devil  in  his  hand- 
some beard-case — quite  the  thing,  you  know — up-to-date 
fellow — and  with  us  it's  Jazz,  and  clocks  on  the  socks  and 
spats. 


102  THE  OUTSIDER 

He  was  enraged  by  this  arrogance  of  the  generations, 
this  Cockney  self-confidence ;  it  was  only  one  generation  out 
of  thousands,  out  of  tens  of  thousands,  millions,  world 
without  end ;  different  forms  of  life,  from  lepidodendra  to 
man,  from  man  to  God  knows  what. 

But  what  was  the  good  of  telling  them? 

" That's  the  provincialness  of  man,"  he  said  to  Ezra, 
who  was  leaning  on  Juliette  now.  ' '  All  men  are  provincial, 
all  life  is;  for  I  take  it  that  provincialism  is  applicable  to 
all  things,  time,  space  and  life  in  general ;  every  little  man, 
every  little  group  of  men,  self-absorbed  and  cocked  up 
about  itself,  is  provincial;  every  little  world  that  thinks 
it's  it,  and  the  rest  of  the  world  no-account,  as  it  were. 
Take  the  youth  that  goes  to  college.  He  learns  all  the 
college  slang,  and  thinks  himself  the  hell  of  a  cute  bird 
because  he  knows  it.  And  then  he  uses  it  on  somebody 
that  doesn't  know  it,  and  when  that  somebody  doesn't 
understand,  just  hear  that  college  youth  crow;  you'd  think 
he  was  the  wisest  bird  in  the  world.  And  in  trades  it's 
the  same;  every  prentice  boy  is  just  puffed  up  with  pride 
when  he  knows  the  technical  terms  and  the  slang  phrases 
and  the  cant  jargon  of  his  trade — if  it  be  thieves'  trade  or 
shoemaker's.  Thinks  all  the  world  is  in  the  cold  because 
it  doesn't  know  these  terms.  And  you  come  to  the  diplo- 
mats and  the  professors  and  damn  their  souls  if  they  aren  't 
the  same;  they  have  a  little  old  jargon  of  their  own;  and 
if  you  don't  know  it  you  don't  count  on  this  earth;  one 
fellow  talks  in  terms  of  spheres  of  influence  and  the  other 
fellow  says  you  haven't  got  a  soul  to  speak  of  if  you  can't 
spell  'teleology '.  They  're  as  provincial  as  the  rest.  They  're 
just  vulgar  Cockneys  and  New  Yorkers.  But  what's  the 
good  of  my  telling  you?  Will  that  change  them,  or  you, 
or  anybody  else?  Would  it  change  them  if  I  told  them 
this?  Certainly  not.  You're  not  listening  to  me,  and  even 


THE  OUTSIDER  10.5 

if  you  were  you'd  only  be  waiting  for  a  chance  to  say  some- 
thing or  think. something. ' ' 

He  was  not.  quite  sure  whether  he  said  all  this  or  thought 
it,  or  said  part  and  thought  part ;  but  it  was  all  true.  He 
saw  it  in  a  marvellous  clarity  and.  comprehension.  What 
did  it  matter,  the  world,  man,  time,  this  dancing  of  life, 
this  sensation,  of  being,  this  anything?  He  was  happy — 
very  happy,  but  not  merry  any  more. 

He  was  aware  suddenly  that  Ezra  was  saying  something 
for  the  second  time — about  paying  and  going. 

"Certainly,"  he  said,  smiling  politely  round  the  table 
and  keeping  really  wonderful  control  of  himself.  "I  will 
certainly.  Waitress ! ' ' 

A  burst  of  merriment  returned  to  him  and  he  began  to 
laugh  wildly.  "I  say,  Ezra,  wouldn't  it  be  a  joke  if  we 
refused  to  pay?  We've  all  got  a  bun  on,  and  we're  all 
happy — and  they  couldn't  prevent  us  from  being  happy. 
As  I  feel  now  you  could  shoot  me  and  I'd  be  joyous."  He 
almost  sang  the  suggestion.  "They  couldn't  make  me  un- 
happy— hee,  hee! — they  just  simply  couldn't  make  me  un- 
happy, so  why  need  I  pay?" 

The  four  at  the  table  revelled  hilariously  in  the  idea. 

"I  don't  care  one  damn!"  stuttered  Odette.  "They 
couldn  't  make  me  unhappy  either.  Don 't  pay,  Mortimer. ' ' 

"Just  imagine  the  waiter,  and  the  head  waiter,  and  the 
manager,  all  bursting  with  fury.  '  Monsieur,  you  are  a  thief, 
you  shall  pay,  I  say. '  '  Shan 't  pay. '  '  I  '11  have  you  thrown 
out,  I'll  have  you  arrested.'  '  'S'no  use,  's'no  use.  I'm 
happy  and  you  can't  make  me  otherwise,  and  the  more  you 
howl  the  happier  I  am. '  Haw,  haw ! ' ' 

He  did  pay,  however,  collecting  all  his  wits  in  a  gigantic 
effort.  He  checked  up  the  total  three  or  four  times  without 
getting  satisfaction  and  in  the  end  accepted  the  figures ;  he 
forgot  them  the  moment  he  gave  the  waitress  a  five  hundred 


104  THE  OUTSIDER 

franc  note ;  out  of  the  change  he  left  twenty  francs  on  the 
plate. 

"And  now  we  must  go,"  he  said,  as  a  preliminary  effort. 
He  frowned  sternly  and  stood  up.  He  was  surprised  to  feel 
a  certain  steadiness  in  his  limbs.  He  frowned  somewhat 
more  sternly  and  walked  a  little  towards  the  cloak-room. 
There  he  found  Ezra  by  his  side. 

"I'm  quite. alright, "  he  said  confidentially  to  Ezra.  "I 
thought  I  wasn't,  but  I  am." 

"Same  with  me,"  said  Ezra,  equally  confidential. 
"We're  both  alright  in  the  main,  I  think.  As  a  matter  of 
fact  wine  hypnotises  you  in  advance  to  a  large  extent; 
you're  drunker  than  you  ought  to  be  by  rights;  by  physio- 
logical rights,  I  mean ;  I  mean  that  is,  as  a  purely  physio- 
psychological  matter — you  understand  me?" 

"Quite,  quite,"  said  Mortimer,  anxiously.  "It's  my 
own  feeling,  too.  These  are  my  things,  I  think." 

"I'm  really  speaking  consecutively,"  he  said  to  himself, 
"And  I  am  thinking  quite  logically.  These  are  my  things, 
I  give  the  waitress  two  francs  and  I  go  back,  and  as  I  go 
out  I  look  back  for  Ezra  to  show  him  and  the  cloak-room 
woman  that  I  know  quite  well  what  I  'm  about,  eh  ?  Then 
the  girls  are  waiting  there,  and  we  go  quite  properly  down- 
stairs. It's  all  very  simple. 

He  carried  out  all  these  instructions  with  a  faultless 
precision,  keeping  careful  check  on  every  part  of  them. 
"Quite  alright,  quite  alright,"  he  assured  himself  at  inter- 
vals. ' '  Perfectly  proper  thing  to  do. ' ' 

He  offered  his  arm  to  Odette  as  they  went  down  the 
stairs.  Unhappily,  she  lurched  against  him  and  he  went 
hastily  down  three  steps,  clutched  at  the  railing,  and  sat 
down.  He  remained  sitting,  and  argued  with  himself. 

"That's  nothing,  nothing  at  all.  Don't  sober  men  ever 
stumble  on  the  stairs?  Why  shouldn't  I,  like  any  other 


THE  OUTSIDER  105 

sober  man  ?  Not  that  I  'm  quite  sober ;  I  'd  be  damned  drunk 
to  think  myself  sober  just  now.  But  I  might  almost  pass 
for  sober — or  at  least,  for  a  man  who  happens  to  have 
drunk  some  wine.  I  can  stand  up  by  myself. ' ' 

He  did  so,  but  felt  an  increasing  unsteadiness. 

"No,  no,  I'm  worse  than  I  thought."  He  shook  his  head 
and  accepted  the  arm  of  the  chasseur. 

"Merci,  monsieur/'  he  said,  smiling  sadly  into  the  face 
of  the  chasseur.  ' '  To  you  I  am  a  mere  drunken  guest,  like 
a  thousand  others  you  've  lifted  up  on  these  stairs,  I  doubt 
not.  But  I  am  not;  at  least  I  am,  but  not  quite.  I  don't 
mean  as  regards  the  'drunken'.  I  mean  as  regards  the 
'mere'.  I  am  not  'mere'.  But  what's  the  good  of  telling 
you  that?  What's  the  good  of  telling  anybody  anything? 
None  whatsoever.  I  always  come  to  the  same  conclusion." 

He  stood  on  the  kerbstone,  leaning  against  Ezra,  who  was 
signalling  for  a  taxi. 

"That's  the  funny  thing  about  life  and  men,  Ezra,"  he 
said,  still  sadly.  "Every  human  being  thinks  he  is  not  a 
'mere'.  Every  man  thinks  he  has  something  specially  re- 
deeming about  himself,  'I  am  not  like  the  others.'  The 
veriest  sot,  the  veriest  villain,  has  this  secret  conviction. 
'I'll  show  them  all  some  day — they  don't  know  me  yet.' 
He  doesn't  know  what  he'll  show  them,  he  doesn't  know 
what  he  means.  It's  just  that  vague  conviction  that  there's 
something  about  him,  something,  a  je  ne  sais  quoi,  ha  ?  that 
proves  he's  not  quite  like  the  others.  We  all  feel  it,  don't 
we  ?  Oh,  Ezra,  if  I  could  only  see  things  as  clearly  as  now, 
and  understand  them  as  now !  Nobody  else  cares,  no  more 
than  I  care  for  what  they  have  said  to  me.  This  feeling 
is  a  dreadful  burden,  and  one  can  never  quite,  quite  assim- 
ilate the  conviction  that  it  doesn't  matter." 

Ezra's  attempts  were  finally  successful.  He  thrust  Mor- 
timer in  first,  then  helped  the  girls  in  and  followed. 


106  THE  OUTSIDER 

"I  can  still  dance,"  he  said,  exulting.  "I  can  dance 
until  five  o'clock." 

"Yes,"  continued  Mortimer.  "Every  man  guards  the 
secret  of  his  ultimate  worth — that  'they  don't  know  me 
yet.'  And  there's  something  in  it  after  all;  there's  some- 
thing in  it. ' '  He  seized  Ezra  by  the  arm.  ' '  It  occurs  to  me 
that  there's  something  in  it." 

The  chauffeur  opened  the  door  and  inquired  apologetic- 
ally where  Messieurs  and  Mesdames  wished  to  go. 

"Avenue  Montaigne,"  .said  Juliette.  "We'll  tell  you 
the  number  when  we  get  there. ' ' 

' '  There 's  a  good  deal  in  it,  in  fact, ' '  said  Mortimer,  with 
conviction.  ' '  Every  man  is  life  anew ;  he  is  an  unspeakable 
individuality,  and  au  fond  he  knows  it.  Life  is  alike  to 
no  two  minds  in  the  world.  They  all  see  it  differently. 
You  know,  the  hatter  sees  the  world  and  mankind  in  terms 
of  sizes  of  heads;  his  first  thought  is  for  the  circumference 
of  the  cranium.  The  sausage  manufacturer  in  terms  of 
their  capacity  to  eat  sausages.  He  sees  man  essentially  as 
a  sausage  receptacle,  other  attributes  corresponding.  A 
good  man  to  him  is  a  man  who  regularly  eats  two  sausages 
for  breakfast  or  lunch.  A  bad  man  never  touches  sausages. 
The  Devil  is  the  spirit  which  animates  all  the  jokes  about 
the  sausages.  Yes,  Ezra,  I  could  write  a  book  on  this  phil- 
osophy. There's  something  in  it,  I  say.  Ezra,  from  the 
stone  age  to  the  bronze  age,  from  the  bronze  age  to  the 
sausage.  Why  not?  Oh!" 

The  motion  of  the  taxi  was  inspiring  a  certain  sickness 
in  him.  But  he  continued  to  talk. 

"They  all  see  life  in  terms  of  their  limitations.  But  is 
there  a  right  way  of  seeing  life?  Is  there,  I  say?  There 
is  not.  For  God's  sake  tell  this  driver  not  to  go  downhill. 
It  makes  me  sick  all  over." 


THE  OUTSIDER  107 

"It  can't  be  helped,  Mortimer;  you've  got  to  go  down- 
hill to  the  Avenue  Montaigne." 

"Well  tell  him  to  go  round  the  other  way,  or  to  turn  the 
taxi  round  and  go  uphill. ' ' 

He  leaned  on  Odette  wearily. 

"My  mind,  my  mind,  it  will  not  cease  from  thinking.  1 
repeat,  there  is  no  right  way  of  seeing  life.  To  the  doctor, 
man  is  a  construction  of  organs,  bones  and  juices;  and  to 
the  psalmodist,  something  a  little  lower  than  the  angels. ' ' 

He  stopped  talking  and  watched  the  dark  streets  going 
by.  Decidedly,  he  was  not  feeling  well.  But  the  mind 
was  there,  clear.  It  was  there  more  than  it  had  ever  been 
before.  But  a  wildness  was  upon  the  earth,  a  fury  of  reve- 
lation. He  could  not  speak  for  the  multitudinous  revela- 
tions that  flashed  upon  him,  lightning  upon  lightning,  a 
mad  succession  of  stupendous  truths.  They  were  not  there, 
the  four  of  them,  in  a  taxi ;  they  were  rushing  through  the 
bowels  of  existence ;  they  were  in  the  secret  recesses  of  life, 
and  a  thousand  voices  round  them  chanted  in  almost  com- 
prehensible language  the  solution  of  ancient  mysteries. 

"There  is  not,"  he  said  loudly.  "Never.  We  are  all 
asses,  but  our  ears  are  not  long  enough. ' ' 

The  ensuing  hours  were  bedlam  to  his  perception.  A  crowd 
of  them,  out  of  countless  taxis,  went  up  steep  stairs,  a  long, 
long  way.  Somebody  said  frantically,  "Silence,  Messieurs 
et  Dames,  the  respectable  neighbours  must  not  hear,  or  the 
police  will  raid  the  place;  upstairs  you  may  make  all  the 
noise  you  want.  Please,  sssilenccce ! ' ' 

Somebody  said  "Sh-sh-sh"  intensely.  Another  repeated 
it,  and  the  whole  crowd  jostling  up  the  stairs  took  it  up, 
Mortimer  with  them.  A  fierce  sibilation  flew  up  and  down 
the  stairs,  in  which  now  and  again  could  be  heard  the  im- 
ploring voice,  "Gentlemen,  gentlemen,  the  neighbors,  the 


108  THE  OUTSIDER 

neighbors!"  Somebody  said,  "there  are  no  neighbors. 
They're  all  here." 

"That's  right,"  shouted  Mortimer,  in  a  terrific  flash  of 
understanding.  "The  neighbors?  We  are  the  neighbors." 

That  was  almost  the  only  remark  he  made  in  the  building. 
Upstairs  they  came  into  a  hall  brilliantly  lit ;  a  band  played 
softly,  figures  whirled  in  the  centre  of  the  hall;  there  was 
laughter,  clinking  of  glasses,  the  rhythm  of  feet. 

Mortimer  did  not  dance.  He  hardly  knew  where  he  was ; 
his  meditations  came  faster  and  faster  upon  him.  He  com- 
mented on  all  earthly  and  unearthly  things  in  turn ;  there 
was  so  much,  so  much,  an  infinity  of  things  to  think  upon. 
And  he  was  compelled  by  an  infinite  force  to  think  on 
them,  and  classify  them.  He  wanted  to  stop,  he  wanted  to 
rest  his  mind ;  he  argued  with  himself  that  having  analysed 
one  matter,  it  was  ended,  and  he  could  take  a  rest.  But 
one  thought  involved  a  second,  which  was  bound  to  a  third, 
which  could  not  be  torn  from  a  fourth.  Finally  he  began 
to  marvel  at  the  horrible  continuity  of  a  man's  conscious- 
ness and,  fascinated  by  the  interminable  sequence  of 
thoughts,  gave  up  the  attempt  to  stop  thinking.  He  was 
then,  though  he  scarcely  knew  it,  standing  up  and  talking 
to  himself,  with  a  look  of  extraordinary  ingeniousness  on 
his  face,  his  finger  in  front  of  his  nose,  emphasising  by 
short,  sharp  gestures  the  logic  of  his  cogitations. 

"Obviously,  if  a  man  could  be  introduced  turn  by  turn 
through  the  chain  of  human  acquaintanceships  he  could  in 
the  end  be  introduced  to  everybody  in  the  world.  You  see  ? " 
The  motion  of  his  finger  became  sharp  and  convincing.  ' '  By 
a  series  of  introductions,  I  say,  a  man  could  get  to  know 
anybody,  any  blessed  body  on  the  wide,  wide  earth.  Every- 
body knows  somebody  else,  n'est-ce-pasf  And  there's  no 
closed  circle  of  common  acquaintances;  a  friend  of  mine 
is  Ezra;  a  friend  of  a  friend  of  mine,  of  Ezra's,  that  is, 


THE  OUTSIDER  109 

might  be  God  knows  who — or  an  acquaintance,  at  least.  And 
his  friends  might  include  the  King  of  England.  The  world 
of  human  beings  is  thus  bound  up,  link  by  link.  Well,  what 
of  it?  Isn't  that  only  a  reproduction  of  the  interdepend- 
ence of  the  atoms  of  the  universe?" 

Here  he  sat  down  in  a  chair  which  someone  had  just  va- 
cated crossed  his  legs,  and  meditated  still  more  intensely. 

"What  am  I  thinking  about,  I  say?  What  will  I  think 
about  next  ?  I  really  do  not  know.  Yet  I  will  surely  think 
about  something.  Obviously  this  is  so,  or  I  would  not  be 
thinking — and  I  am  thinking.  What  does  that  prove? 
Simply  that  you  can't  control  your  thinking.  But  is  think- 
ing thinking  ?  Obviously,  if  what  is,  is,  and  it  certainly  is, 
at  any  rate  as  far  as  we  are  concerned.  But  who  are  we  ? 
Nobody  at  all.  Or  maybe  we  are  somebody.  That  would 
be  splendid,  if  death  too  were  a  mockery,  as  whatsisname 
says.  Pah!  Sentimental  rubbish!" 

He  remembered  vaguely  a  tumult  and  a  whirling  of  fig- 
ures, music,  faces — but  he  was  paying  no  attention  to  them. 
He  was  intent  on  following,  step  by  step,  an  endless  chain 
of  reasoning  that  promised  in  vain  a  conclusion.  Then  there 
was  a  confusion  of  taxis  and  motion;  then  an  outburst  of 
obstinacy  on  his  part,  and  the  sensation  of  having  his  own 
way.  More  clearly  after  that  he  remembered  walking  with 
fair  control  over  himself  down  the  Champs  Elysees  and 
into  the  rue  Royale.  The  splendor  and  softness  of  the  night 
calmed  him  a  little  and  though  the  babbling  in  his  brain 
went  on  his  conceptions  were  now  larger  and  clearer.  The 
great  loneliness  of  the  streets  was  like  a  presence.  He 
thought  again  of  the  history  of  Paris,  and  cast  back  to  the 
train  of  ideas  he  had  been  following  in  the  dance  hall. 

"There  is  a  subtle  interdependence  linking  every  indi- 
vidual atom  to  its  countless  brothers  in  the  universe.  No 
action  stands  alone.  The  moving  of  an  eyelash  sends  an 


110  THE  OUTSIDER 

invisible  breath  of  change  through  the  whole  universe. 
These  footsteps  disturb  the  particles  in  the  rings  of  Saturn 
and  move  from  its  course  the  ultimate  planet  of  the  North 
Pole  Star. 

"Yes,  and  every  stone  here  is  a  record  of  the  history  of 
the  world.  These  buildings  are  not  merely  the  witnesses. 
There  is  graved  into  them  the  story  of  all  events.  The 
atoms  lie  differently  for  every  action  that  has  played  itself 
out.  Stones  do  speak,  but  while  this  muddy  vesture  of 
decay  sits  close  about  us,  we  cannot  hear  them. 

' '  How  lonely  the  streets  are ;  how  lonely ;  how  lonely.  As 
lonely  as  I  am,  as  lonely  as  life,  as  mankind  is. 

"All  men  are  lonely,  and  their  footsteps  ring  in  the  soli- 
tude of  their  lives.  No  man  can  speak  to  another  man  to 
make  him  understand.  He  that  would  understand  me,  must 
be  me;  I  must  pour  myself  into  his  brain,  be  lost  in  him. 
This  cannot  be.  Words  are  but  the  rough  working  tools 
of  daily  business;  even  conscious  thought  is  not  ourself. 
How  then,  can  there  be  intercourse  between  us?  How  can 
we  transmit  ourselves  ? 

' '  No,  every  man  bears  his  desolation  about  with  him.  To 
every  man  the  world  is  peopled  with  ghosts,  and  he  is  the 
only  reality." 

He  stopped  in  his  walking  and  stood,  straining  at  the 
sky.  "I  am  alone  with  you,"  he  whispered,  "day  and 
night,  amongst  men  and  in  solitude,  I  am  alone  with  you. 
The  rest  is  illusion." 

He  stretched  his  arms  up  to  the  heavens,  and  a  rush  of 
tears  blinded  him.  He  felt  again  in  himself  the  surge  of 
primal  emotion,  the  call  of  passions  not  his  own,  but  of  the 
life-force.  He  alone  was  the  reality  and  the  heavens  were 
the  background  to  him. 

"I  alone  am  alive,"  he  cried.    "I  am  living.    My  heart 


THE  OUTSIDER  111 

beats  and  my  mind  sings  and  the  whole  world  is  in  me.  You 
and  I — you  and  I,  living,  speaking,  each  to  the  other." 

The  words  choked  him.  The  strength  that  was  in  him 
was  more  than  he  could  bear.  Shivering  he  looked  about 
him,  and  saw  in  front  the  Madeleine  bulking  into  the 
heavens,  with  vast  pillars  wan  and  indistinct.  Strange ! 
How  strange  it  looked;  as  if  mankind  had  deserted  it  ten 
thousand  years  ago ;  still  standing,  hundreds  of  generations 
after  the  last  priest  had  died,  waiting,  waiting  for  time  to 
wear  it  away. 

"The  sands  of  the  desert  are  the  wind- wasted  walls  of 
temples,"  he  said. 

He  went  over  and  leaned  against  the  wall  of  the  Mad- 
eleine, exhausted  suddenly,  and  overcome  again  by  an  in- 
tolerable melancholy.  The  tears  started  again  to  his  eyes; 
he  wanted  to  weep  for  the  miseries  of  the  human  race,  for 
the  wrongs  and  persecutions  it  had  borne,  for  the  evil 
things  it  had  inflicted  on  itself  and  for  the  cruelties  it  had 
suffered  at  the  hands  of  its  Creator.  He  heard  from  a  great 
^distance  a  sound  of  lamentation,  many  generations  .com- 
plaining to  God  for  wars  and  feuds  and  pestilences.  Pa- 
tience that  could  endure  no  more,  love  that  had  hoped  in 
vain,  man's  blind  yearning  for  goodness  that  circum- 
stances daily  thwarted  and  turned  to  a  mesh  of  evil,  »the 
immemorial  "Why?" — all  these  mingled  in -a  persecuting 
dirge. 

He  stood  as  if  petrified,  in  the  darkness  by  the  church, 
listening  to  his  heart ;  and  then  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  the 
dirge  was  coming  nearer  to  him,  was  sounding  louder  in 
his  ears.  It  seemed  to  him  that  a  congregation  was  chant- 
ing, a  great  congregation  of  mourners,  there  in  the  church 
itself,  in  the  darkness  of  the  church,  behind  those  pillars, 
wan  and  indistinct,  behind  those  terrible  walls — a  great  con- 
gregation of  mourners  chanting  slowly  and  with  pauses 


112  THE  OUTSIDER 

that  echoed  from  the  vast  ceiling.  His  heart  stopped  beat- 
ing. They  were  chanting  his  name — ' '  Mortimer,  Mortimer, 
Mortimer,  Mortimer,"  waves  of  sound  rolling  one  after 
the  other.  And  then,  as  one  section  of  the  congregation  after 
another  took  up  his  name,  and  the  waves  of  sound  beat 
closer  one  after  the  other,  it  seemed  that  only  the  first  syl- 
lable of  his  name  emerged,  like  the  tolling  of  a  gigantic  bell 
— "Mort!  Mort!  Mort!  Mort!"  He  was  dying. 

His  sightless  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  Egyptian  pillar  in 
the  Place  de  la  Concorde. 


CHAPTER  VI 

NOON  of  the  next  day  was  glowing  through  the  heavy 
portieres  when  Mortimer  became  aware  that  he  was  awake. 
He  was  watching  with  a  pleased  inanity  the  light  on  the 
carpet  just  underneath  the  window ;  there  no  footsteps  had 
worn  the  pattern,  which  still  shone  green  and  grey.  He 
came  slowly  to  himself.  Except  for  a  dryness  in  his  mouth, 
nothing  remained  of  his  revel  but  memories,  confused  mem- 
ories, chiefly  of  sensations  and  fits  of  exaltation  and  de- 
pression. 

Before  this  vague  intention  of  getting  up  had  taken  form, 
Ezra  put  his  nose  slyly  round  the  door,  saw  that  he  was 
awake,  and  came  in,  grinning.  He  made  a  profound  obei- 
sance two  or  three  times  and  said,  whining,  through  his 
nose,  "Good  morning,  Sir.  How's  your  good  self  this  morn- 
ing?" 

Mortimer  grinned  back  and  said  nothing. 

"Feeling  gueule-deboi-ish-like  today?"  asked  Ezra, 
mockingly.  "Have  you  an  inexplicable  hot-calcium-carbon- 
ate feeling  on  the  palate  ?  Have  you  doubts  as  to  your  iden- 
tity? Are  you  wondering  whether  you  are  one  person  or 
two.  Does  an  astonishing  noise  persist  in  your  head?" 

"No  symptoms,"  said  Mortimer.  "I  feel  like  a  gentle- 
man; open  the  portieres  like  a  good  fellow,  and  hand  me 
a  glass  of  water. ' ' 

Ezra  pulled  the  portieres  aside;  then  he  and  Mortimer 
looked  at  each  other  in  the  fresh  light  and  irresistible 
laughter  came  over  them. 

* '  We  sure  played  the  fool  last  night, ' '  said  Mortimer,  still 
laughing.  "But  there  must  be  something  wrong  with  me. 
I've  got  no  after-effects;  not  even  a  twinge  of  conscience." 

113 


114  THE  OUTSIDER 

"We  certainly  played  the  fool,"  agreed  Ezra,  walking 
up  and  down  in  his  grey  robe  and  smiling  at  the  floor, 
"you  were  divinely  beso/fen,  Mortimer.  You  must  have 
a  pretty  good  constitution  to  come  up  smiling  this  morn- 
ing." 

"I  wonder  what  the  little  outburst  cost,"  said  Mortimer. 

"The  very  thing  I  came  down  here  to  find  out,"  said 
Ezra.  "We  can't  play  the  fool  like  this  very  often.  Once 
every  six  months  is  all  our  finances  can  stand." 

"Let's  see,"  said  Mortimer,  calculating.  "I  went  out 
last  night  with  a  five  hundred  franc  note  in  my  pocket  and 
fifty -five  francs.  Give  me  my  coat." 

He  took  out  his  pocket-book  and  looked  timidly  in.  ' '  One, 
fifty — Good  Lord — one  hundred  and  fifty  francs,"  he  said, 
horrified.  "Pretty  expensive  jag,  I  call  that.  Four  hun- 
dred francs."  He  rubbed  his  nose  violently. 

"My  puir  laddie,"  said  Ezra,  "it  isn't  all.  You  did  the 
paying  till  we  left  the  Monico.  I  paid  the  taxi  to  the 
Avenue  Montaigne,  I  paid  the  entry — thirty  francs  apiece, 
drinks  inside,  taxi  to  see  the  girls  home.  Open  your  shud- 
dering ears ;  that  makes  another  two  hundred  and  fifty. ' ' 

MortimeU  drew  breath  and  whistled.  "Six!  hundred 
and  fifty  francs!"  They  looked  at  each  other  and  smiled 
by  degrees. 

"That's  three  hundred  and  twenty-five  apiece,"  said 
Ezra.  "Not  so  bad." 

' '  Three  hundred  and  twenty-five, ' '  said  Mortimer  slowly. 
"That  leaves  me  with  four  hundred  and  eighty  francs  in 
the  world.  In  about  a  week  I  shall  have  four  hundred  to 
collect  from  old  Lessar,  then  there's  that  translation  for 
the  man  at  the  Albion  Hotel  I  met  through  Lessar.  Pooh, 
pooh,  that's  alright." 

He  felt  assured  again. 

"I'll  get  up,"  he  said,  and  put  his  feet  out  of  bed. 


THE  OUTSIDER  115 

"Ezra,  put  a  match  to  the  grate,  will  you?  They  always 
leave  a  fire  prepared.  By  Gemini,  we  11  have  to  live  rather 
carefully  now,  eh?  Once  in  a  way  doesn't  matter,  though. 
Let's  see." 

He  put  on  his  slippers  and  robe,  and  sat  down  with  a 
piece  of  paper  and  a  pencil  at  the  table. 

' '  It 's  the  sixteenth  now,  eh  ?  I  've  got  four  eighty  francs. 
In  a  week's  time  another  four  hundred;  before  the  first 
another  two  hundred  for  the  translation;  that's  over  a 
thousand  francs.  We're  wealthy;  it's  nearly  a  hundred 
dollars.  Ring  the  bell  and  tell  them  we'll  take  a  little 
breakfast. ' ' 

"Remember,"  said  Ezra,  warningly,  "it  costs  you  two 
fifty  to  take  breakfast  in  this  room.  You  can  have  as 
good  a  one  for  sixty  centimes  if  you  stand  up  to  it  at  the 
corner  cafe." 

"No,  no,"  said  Mortimer,  "after  such  a  gorgeous  night 
one  can't  go  back  too  suddenly  to  our  meagre  regime. 
You've  got  to  break  the  fall  or  you'll  break  your  morale. 
Morale,  that's  what  won  the  war,  and  don't  you  forget  it. 
I'm  for  a  cup  of  coffee  now — and  say,  look  at  the  sun- 
light— "  he  was  hopping  feverishly  round  on  one  leg, 
thrusting  the  other  down  a  twisted  trouser — "look  at  the 
sunlight.  After  a  cup  of  coffee  let's  go  hunting  a  place 
to  dine  in.  Say,  do  you  remember  those  eathouses  in  the 
States  "a  clean  place  to  eat,"  as  though  you  were  a  land- 
scape shifter.  I  suggest  a  walk  up  the  Montmartre — just 
so.  Listen — there 's  church  bells.  I  feel  a  strain  of  piety. ' ' 

"I  think,"  said  Ezra,  stretching  himself  luxuriously  in 
the  armchair  by  the  slowly  mounting  fire,  "that  there's 
a  back-wash  of  the  wine  talking  in  you.  Your  spirits  are 
too  high." 

"I  feel  uncommonly  good  this  morning,"  said  Mortimer. 
"Really  I  do.  Wouldn't  that  sunlight  make  any  man  feel 


116  THE  OUTSIDER 

good.  Oh,  Henri"  to  the  boy  who  had  answered  the  bell 
"coffee,  hot,  and  petits  pcvlns,  and  plenty  of  milk  and 
sugar.  Look  there,  into  the  street.  It's  dazzling.  Makes 
you  want  to  run  about  naked." 

"As  I  say,  I  admire  your  constitution.  You  were  rav- 
ing seven  or  eight  hours  ago.  Just  plainly  raving. ' ' 

"That's  funny,"  said  Mortimer,  dropping  into  the  other 
chair.  "Drinking  only  gets  the  senses  and  not  the  mind — 
at  least,  not  the  mind  directly.  Last  night  I  thought 
nothing  extravagant.  I'm  sure  of  it.  Only  I  took  my 
drinking  with  such  moving  seriousness,  didn't  I?  But  if 
that  kind  of  thing  is  what  they  call  the  high  life  and  high 
living — it  doesn't  appeal  over  strongly  to  me.  I  imagine 
once  a  few  months  is  as  much  as  I  'd  like. ' ' 

"I  suppose  that  is  the  high  life,"  said  Ezra,  "the  girls 
might  be  more  dressed,  or  undressed;  you  yourself  might 
wear  evening  dress.  You  might  pay  a  thousand  francs 
for  the  dinner  and  drink  nothing  but  champagne.  But 
it's  the  same  thing." 

"And  there  are  people  who  do  that  kind  of  thing  reg- 
ularly," said  Mortimer,  naively. 

"There  are,"  affirmed  Ezra  sententiously.  "They  are 
the  bad  boys." 

"What  a  lack  of  imagination, "  said  Mortimer.  "I 
don't  see  anything  in  it  except  one's  own  high  spirits;  and 
if  you  make  a  routine  of  getting  drunk  your  spirits '11  be 
low  enough.  And  I  don't  care  how  the  ladies  dress  or 
look." 

"They're  nice,  those  two,"  said  Ezra,  remembering 
kindly.  "They're  very  nice.  It's  a  shame  we  can't  take 
Mado  and  Carmen  out  like  that." 

Mortimer  felt  a  pang  again,  it  was  more  than  a  shame ; 
he  might  have  given  that  money  to  poor  little  Carmen. 
What  a  costume  she  could  get  for  three  hundred  francs! 


THE  OUTSIDER  117 

"But  you  can't  do  it,"  went  .on  Ezra,  insistent.  "I 
don't  only  mean  because  the  kids  are  so  badly  dressed — 
but  what  would  they  do  in  the  Monico?  They'd  be  lost." 

"They  are  different  from  Odette  and  Juliette.  Two 
worlds.  Odette  and  Juliette  belong  to  the  ancient  and 
honorable  order  of  hemi-demi-mondaines ;  one  can  show 
off  with  them,  if  one  has  money,  take  them  riding  in  the 
Bois,  and  that  kind  of  thing.  For  goodness  sake,  how  did 
things  wind  up  last  night.  I'm  a  bit  confused  about  the 
finale." 

"You  got  rather  moody,"  said  Ezra,  twinkling  at  him. 
' '  You  said  you  wanted  to  walk  in  sublime  solitude,  and  we 
had  to  let  you.  You  left  us  at  the  Avenue  Montaigne. 
You  were  abominably  obstinate." 

"Yes,  yes.  I  think  I  remember  insisting  on  something, 
that's  right.  I  wandered  down  to  the  Madeleine  and  stuck 
there  till  it  got  light — and  then  I  came  home.  Yep.  I 
was  saying,  Juliette  and  Odette  aren  't  really  worth  Car- 
men's  little  finger,  humanly  speaking.  But  you  couldn't 
get  drunk  with  Carmen.  She'd  be  worrying  about  your 
condition.  She's  really  so  good." 

Ezra  nodded  several  times.     "She  is — very  good." 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,"  said  Mortimer,  "I'm  getting  a 
bit  scared  of  her.  I  had  a  scene  with  her  the  other  eve- 
ning. She's  getting  kinder  too  fond  of  me;  not  in  a  wild 
way,  I  mean,  but  in  a  solid  way.  I  can  see  that,  and  I'm 
a  wee  bit  afraid." 

"But  don't  you  like  her?" 

"Of  course  I  do — a  whole  lot.  And  that's  the  trouble. 
If  I  didn't  like  her  I  wouldn't  be  afraid  of  complications, 
but  as  it  is,  between  her  becoming  affectionate  in  that  way 
and  my  liking  her,  there's  a  whole  bundle  of  possibilities. 
You  get  me?" 

"I  do." 


118  THE  OUTSIDER 

"And,"  said  Mortimer  emphatically,  "I  don't  want 
complications  and  responsibilities.  I  stayed  in  Paris  to 
avoid  them.  I  don't  want  anyone  to  love  me  in  that  way, 
because  it's  distressing.  You  can't  breathe  freely  with 
somebody's  soul  in  your  keeping.  I  must  be  free — or  I 
might  as  well  pack  up  and  go  home,  because  all  slaveries 
are  alike." 

"I  wonder  whether  Carmen  knows  how  she  exercises 
your  mind." 

"Of  course  not,  though  she  may  think  I  like  her  more 
than  I  do.  It's  hard  to  say  an  affectionate  word  to  her 
without  her  making  a  whole  little  w:orld  out  of  it.  She's 
a  better  man  than  I  am,  so  to  speak.  Poor  little  kid." 

The  coffee  came  when  Mortimer  had  finished  washing. 
After  the  shave  and  the  cold  water,  Mortimer  felt  clear 
in  mind  and  body. 

"Just  a  drink,  Ezra,  then  we  can  get  ready  and  take  a 
good  walk.  I  can  fancy  a  little  restaurant  perched  up 
there  near  the  Sacre  Coeur.  I  '11  order  a  steak  and  pommes 
f rites.  Just  today  we'll  be  a  little  extravagant,  what? 
After  today,  back  to  the  old  grind." 

When  they  set  foot  outside  a  chill,  fresh  wind  was  blow- 
ing. The  sunlight  was  brilliant  on  the  walls  and  pave- 
ments; keen  winter  was  in  the  air.  With  their  overcoats 
buttoned  close  they  walked  briskly  to  the  rue  Royale.  The 
pavement  seemed  to  ring  under  their  footsteps. 

There  was  the  Madeleine  still,  clean-cut  in  the  sunlight ; 
on  the  columns  the  light  and  shadow  lay  so  sharply  that 
they  looked  over  real,  like  the  painted  columns  in  a  theatre. 
The  leaves  danced  in  the  wind.  Over  head  the  trees,  clad 
like  beggars,  swayed  left  and  right  and  shook  their  haggard 
branches. 

The  wind  grew  till  it  sang  in  their  ears.  Gusts  of  it 
wrapped  them  round  like  invisible,  flapping  garments. 


THE  OUTSIDER  111) 

"There  are  so  many  different  ways  of  feeling  alive," 
said  Mortimer,  as  they  came  to  the  end  of  the  Chaussee 
d'Antin.  "And  each  one  is  good.  Look  at  that." 

He  meant*  the  blue  sky  behind  the  towers  of  the  Church 
of  the  Trinity — an  intolerably  vivid  blue1  that  hurt  the  de- 
lighted eye  just  as  the  suggestion  of  infinite  depth  hurt  the 
imnd;  There  was  not  a  fleck  on  the  whole  sky ;  behind  the 
Church  and  to  the  left,  where  the  skyline  was  at  its  lowest, 
the  edges  of  the  fierce  blue  took  on  a  burning  tint  of  bronze. 
Mortimer  drank  the  light  as  they  walked  rapidly  uphill. 

Beyond  the  Place  Blanche  they  turned  off  from  the  rue 
Lepic  into  'a  curious  little  street  with  a  straggling  hedge 
on  one  side  and  crumbling  houses  on  the  other.  The  side- 
walk was  old  and  faulty,  the  street  paved  with  gigantic 
cobblestones.  They  stopped. 

"Look  at  that,"  said  Mortimer,  laughing.  "You're  in 
Paris  now,  mark  you,  and  not  in  a  ruined  village  of  the 
Auvergnes. ' ' 

At  the  end  of  the  street  was  a  small  square,  with  six 
trees  nodding.  The  irregular  sides  of  the  square  were 
ancient  houses.  The  wind  blew  the  sand  along  the  ground 
to  the  foot  of  a  flight  of  wooden  stairs  that  started  up  and 
went  away  round  a  corner.  Grass  grew  near  the  gutters 
that  ran  round  the  square.  Two  ancient  benches  stood 
on  rusty  feet  under  the  trees.  In  the  sunlight  a  double 
portion  of  desolation  and  neglect  sat  on  the  tiny  scene. 

"It  takes  a  long  time  to  make  a  real  good  ruin,"  said 
Mortimer,  as  they  started  up  the  stairs. 

"It  takes  a  long  time  to  make  anything  that's  good," 
said  Ezra,  nodding.  "The  best  things  human  beings  pro- 
duce they  have  to  produce  unconsciously;  the  desire  to 
produce  something  good  is  almost  always  fatal. ' ' 

They  changed  their  climbing  walk  to  a  run.  At  the  top 
of  the  stairs  the  Sacre  Coeur  came  into  view,  bulking  white 


120  THE  OUTSIDER 

into  the  blue.  Turning  round,  they  looked  down  between 
the  two  walls  at  a  section  of  Paris,  dusty,  bluish,  with  hills 
far  away.  Immediately  below  them  was  a  tangle  of  old 
roofs,  jumbled  wildly  into  each  other. 

They  went  on  slowly  up  the  stairs.  Halfway  up  the 
second  flight,  on  a  kind  of  platform,  stood  a  ludicrous 
building  on  the  point,  it  seemed,  of  instant  dissolution.  A 
battered  door  leaned  away  from'  its  hinges  with  a  rogueish 
lilt,  suggestive  of  a  battered  cocotte.  They  looked  into 
a  dirty  lobby  between  crumbling  walls.  The  shutters  of 
the  upstairs  windows  hung  frantically  to  their  hinges. 
Iron  gratings,  rusted  and  twisted,  covered  the  lower  half 
of  the  windows,  and  from  one  such  grating  a  cracked  tin 
sign  stuck  out  at  right  angles.  "Hotel  de  I'Univers  et  de 
la  Gascogne.  Chambres  meublees,  1  franc  par  jour." 

The  two  men  stared  aghast  at  the  building  and  then  at 
each  other.  ' '  This  is, ' '  said  Mortimer  at  last,  emphatically, 
"the  most  abominable  human  habitation  I  have  ever  seen." 
They  continued  staring.  "Does  anybody  live  in  it,"  he 
asked,  incredulously. 

"The  Hotel  of  the  Universe  and  of  Gascony,"  said  Ezra 
with  a  chuckle.  "I'd  almost  live  here  myself  for  the  sake 
of  the  name.  Sure  people  live  here — and  glad  to  do  it,  I 
suppose,  if  they  have  the  necessary  one  franc  per  day. 
Imagine  that  before  the  war  I  got  a  dainty  little  room  in 
the  rue  des  ficoles  for  one  franc  a  day,  electric  light,  shoes 
shined,  use  of  telephone,  and  bathroom.  I've  slept  in 
worse  places  myself.  Do  you  remember  the  Jaccressade 
of  St.  Malo  in  Toilers  of  the  Deep?" 

Mortimer  nodded. 

"I  don't  suppose  you  know  what  'dormir  d,  la  corde* 
means.  I've  done  that,  here  in  Paris.  There's  a  big  room 
with  rows  of  chairs.  In  front  of  each  row  of  chairs  there's 
stretched  across  the  room  a  wooden  bar.  You  sit  on  the 


THE  OUTSIDER  121 

chair  and  rest  your  arms  and  head  on  the  bar.  It  used 
to  cost  two  sous  for  the  night,  I  think.  In  the  summer 
you'd  prefer  to  sleep  outside  to  avoid  the  smell;  but  in 
winter  even  a  smell  has  warmth." 

"I  would  really  like  to  see  one  of  these  rooms,"  said 
Mortimer.  "I  wonder  if  we  couldn't  go  and  say  we  want 
to  hire  a  room  for  a  month." 

Ezra  exploded  at  the  idea. 

"You  simpleton!  You'd  get  Tmifed  for  having  a  clean 
collar  on.  They'd  take  you  for  a  Commissaire  de  Police. 
Beside,  do  you  think  that  a  poor  devil  that  uses  such  a 
room  ever  has  a  month's  rent  in  his  possession?  I  bet 
nobody  ever  takes  a  room  for  longer  than  a  day  at  a  time 
— and  comes  in  the  evening  with  his  franc — or  her  franc. 
Fugitive  business — what  they  call  in  the  commercial  world 
transient  clientele,  n'est-ce  pas?" 

' '  This  place  fascinates  me, ' '  said  Mortimer.  ' '  Honestly, 
I've  never  seen  anything  so  horrible  in  all  my  life.  Say, 
do  you  think  that  two  people  each  in  possession  of  fifty  cen- 
times could,  on  a  windy,  rainy  night,  get  a  room  here 
between  them  ? ' ' 

"You're  fastidious,"  said  Ezra.  "You  haven't  knocked 
about.  I'm  ready  to  bet  that  if  you  were  forced  to  live 
in  one  of  these  rooms  you'd  not  only  get  used  to  it,  but  in 
the  end  you'd  begin  to  think  of  it  as  home." 

They  walked  upwards  from  the  Hotel  de  1'Univers  et 
de  la  Gaseogne  to  the  top  of  the  second  flight  of  stairs. 

"The  worst  thing  to  me  about  that  hotel  down  there," 
said  Ezra,  "is  it's  proprietor.  Fancy  a  man  who  can  own 
a  thing  like  that  and  make  money  out  of  it — take  francs 
from  wrecks  of  human  beings.  I  suppose  it's  business  after 
all;  there  are  worse  places." 

"Who  are  the  people  who  sleep  here?"  persisted  Morti- 
mer, looking  back  on  to  the  patched  roof  of  the  Hotel. 


122  THE  OUTSIDER 

' '  Sandwichmen,  those  bleary-eyed  old  fellows  you  see 
on  the  Boulevards  carrying  advertisements  of  carbarets 
and  the  dansants  and  chic  restaurants;  old  ragpickers, 
those  elegant  elderly  ladies  you  see  late  at  night  on  the 
Boulevards  with  their  noses  in  the  garbage  cans.  I've 
been  lots  of  things,  Mortimer,  and  I'll  be  lots  more,  but 
I  don't  think  I  could  ever  be  one  of  those  ragpickers.  It 
needs  a  real  commercial  ability  and  a  fine  sense  of  values. 
French  households  don't  throw  valuables  into  their  gar- 
bage cans."  The  theme  engaged  Ezra;  he  continued, 
laughing  with  a  certain  bitterness.  "I'd  be  puzzled  to 
make  my  choice  out  of  the  contents  of  a  garbage  can — 
embarras  de  choix,  you  know.  I'm  no  good  at  business, 
though  maybe  I  'd  pick  that  up  in  time  along  with  the  other 
things.  These  old  ladies  have  a  regular  scale  of  values 
and  a  gamut  of  emotions.  A  world  of  their  own,  a  world 
of  garbage  cans.  You  were  saying'  something  last  night 
in  the  ecstacy  of  wine  about  the  different  ways  of  seeing 
life.  I'd  like  to  investigate.  How  da  corks  stand  in  the 
ragpicking  world?  Are  they  routine?  When  is  the  low- 
est emotion  registered?  It  must  be  at  a  garbage  can  full 
of  ashes.  You  stir  it  up  and  stir  it  up  and  sneeze  over  it — 
and  it's  ashes  all  the  way  down.  The  next  one  gives  you 
a  mild  surprise  with  two  empty  bottles  and  a  bone.  I 
wonder  what  would  happen  if  one  of  these  ragpickers 
found  a  garbage  can  packed  with  one-thousand  franc  notes 
— no,  she  wouldn't  recognise  them — I  mean  with  five  franc 
notes.  That  must  be  God.  But  it  isn't  really  sandwich- 
men  and  ragpickers  that  fascinate  me — it's  the  people  that 
deal  in  them  and  make  a  good  living  out  of  them. 

"I  don't  think  there's  any  stage  of -life  so  low  but  what 
it  guards  its  own  little  dignities  and  distinctions.  Did  you 
ever  hear  the  story  of  the  crossing-sweepers?  There  was 
one  of  them  that  died,  and  the  next  day  his  colleagues  at 


THE  OUTSIDER  123 

the  old  corner  were  speaking  of  him  with  regret.  'He 
was  a  werry  good  feller,  nice  chap,'  said  one  of  them. 
'Yis,  that  'e  was,'  said  another — 'Werry  nice,' — then 
added,  in  an  anxious  voice,  'don't  you  think  though,  he 
was  a  hit  careless  round  the  lamp-posts?'  ' 

Mortimer  enjoyed  the  anecdote  too  much  to  laugh  at  it ; 
he  turned  it  over  in  his  mind  and  smiled. 

"So  those  are  the  people  who  frequent  the  Hotel  de 
1  'Univers  et  de  la  Gascogne  ? "  he  said. 

"Those,  and  ancient  newsvenders,  and  out-of-works,  and 
beggars.  Mostly  horrible  people.  The  books  pretend 
there's  good  human  stuff  amongst  these  outcasts;  but  when 
a  person's  lived  like  that  for  years,  all  good  is  crushed 
out  of  him —  'tis  not  a  stuff  that  will  endure — and  he  be- 
comes something  horrible." 

"I  wonder  how  one  ever  becomes  a  ragpicker,"  mused 
Mortimer.  "There  must  be  a  series  of  steps  to  that  con- 
dition." 

"Yes,  human  nature  is  stronger  than  iron,"  said  Ezra. 
"There's  hardly  a  limit  to  what  it'll  stand.  One  gets 
accustomed  to  these  things  with  astonishing  easiness.  Years 
ago  I  was  in  London  without  a  penny  in  my  pocket  and  with- 
out a  place  to  sleep  in — and  that  for  several  nights  in  suc- 
cession. I  remember  standing  in  the  late  evening  near  a 
common,  with  my  eye  on  three  or  four  newspapers  in  a 
public  waste-paper  can.  I  wanted  those  newspapers  to 
cover  myself  with  and  to  sleep  on ;  it  was  a  damp,  chilly, 
autumn  night.  The  question  was,  how  to  get  those  news- 
papers from  the  receptacle  without  sacrificing  my  dignity ; 
I  wanted  to  impart  to  the  abstraction  of  the  papers  a  cer- 
tain detachment,  show  in  some  way  that  I  was  merely  an 
eccentric  newspaper  collector,  or  else  wait  till  nobody  was 
about.  And  while  I  stood  hesitating  there,  I  saw  a  wolfish 
fellow  in  rags  making  quite  overtly  for  those  papers.  He 


124  THE  OUTSIDER 

had  no  such  delicacy  of  feeling  about  it.  Well,  I  simply  went 
for  those  papers  at  top  speed.  I  got  them  before  he  did. 
That  was  a  step  in  my  education.  We  are  infinitely  stupid. 
What  should  I  have  cared  for  the  opinion  of  people  who 
might  have  seen  me  taking  those  papers  ?  What  were  they 
to  me,  or  I  to  them?  However,  that's  beside  the  point. 
The  next  evening  I  simply  grabbed  papers  as  I  found  them 
— shameless  and  free.  I've  never  begged  in  the  streets. 
I  must  try  that;  I  may  have  to  some  day.  These  people 
aren  't  as  unhappy  as  we  think,  Mortimer.  They  have  their 
little  worries  and  calculations,  and  their  plans  and  hopes 
and  little  surprises;  they  have  their  corners  and  acquain- 
tances, and  even  their  jokes  and  their  convenances,  God 
save  the  mark.  They  feel  astonishingly  human — and  they 
are,  when  you  get  used  to  them." 

They  came  into  an  open  space  before  the  Church,  and 
stopped  to  look  at  the  dirty-white  monument,  so  different 
from  the  fairy  Eastern  building  glowing  on  the  hilltop  in 
the  evening  sun. 

"This  is  a  monument  of  ugliness,"  said  Mortimer,  as 
they  walked  round  towards  the  Northern  side.  Ezra 
nodded. 

"It's  a  horrible  failure.    I  say,  look  here." 

In  the  shadow  of  the  Church  there  was  an  ancient  bou- 
tique displaying  a  vast  assortment  of  relics,  crucifixes, 
rosaries,  Madonnas  in  plaster  and  bronze,  talismans,  pic- 
ture post-cards  of  saints.  To  some  of  these  articles  was 
attached  a  card  "Blessed  by  Monsignor  ...  by  the  Arch- 
bishop ..."  The  two  men  looked  silently  over  the  col- 
lection of  goods.  Both  of  them  were  thinking  of  the  same 
thing — the  incomprehensible  paradox  of  this  city  of  Paris, 
the  cradle  of  godlessness  and  the  home  of  the  most  ancient, 
most  pitiable  superstitions. 

"At  the  dedication  of  .this  Church,"  said  Ezra,  "they 


THE  OUTSIDER  125 

carried  holy  bones  in  a  procession,  like  a  bunch  of  dark 
African  niggers.  I  don't  understand  Paris.  Look  at  it 
there." 

They  crossed  the  road  to  where  a  railing  shut  off  the  edge 
of  the  hill  towering  over  the  city.  There  lay  Paris,  blue 
and  dusty  in  the  sunshine,  laughing  at  the  great  expanse 
of  heaven.  They  stood  dreaming  over  the  city,  each  in 
his  own  way,  Ezra  remembering  the  many  cities  of  the 
world  he  had  gazed  on,  Mortimer  seized  by  the  sense  of 
the  immortality  of  this  place,  the  obstinacy  of  life. 

"I'm  hungry,"  said  Ezra,  starting  away  at  last.  "One 
can  get  drunk  watching  this  place." 

They  walked  a  little  further  round  the  Church,  then 
downwards  along  a  street  that  slipped  off  at  a  tangent, 
on.  one  side  the  circle  of  the  Church  and  on  the  other  a 
row  of  houses  that  suddenly  shut  off  the  city.  At  the  end 
of  the  first  block  they  came  to  a  wooden  restaurant,  at  the 
side  of  which  a  flight  of  narrow  steps  dropped  a  hundred 
feet  to  a  boulevard.  On  the  further  side  of  these  steps 
was  a  tangle  of  green  trees  on  a  hillside.  The  sunlight 
came  into  the  restaurant  and  smote  the  white  tablecloths 
and  the  cosy  leather  seats. 

"This  place  will  do,"  said  Mortimer. 

They  chose  a  seat  at  a  window  hanging  above  the  narrow 
stairs  and  looking  out  flat  across  Paris,  to  what  looked 
like  the  towers  of  the  Church  of  the  Trinity.  It  was 
then  close  to  two  o'clock;  there  was  in  the  restaurant  only 
a  strange  couple,  a  man  with  a  shock  of  red  hair,  an  open 
shirt  front  and  an  old  jacket,  and  a  woman  in  trousers. 
The  man's  face  was  bronzed,  with  eyes  deep-set  and  a 
firm  pointed  nose  above  thin  lips.  The  woman,  about 
thirty  years  of  age,  was  frankly  ugly,  but  when  she  spoke 
the  vivid  movement  of  her  lips  and  the  intensity  of  the 
expression  compelled  an  almost  breathless  attention.  They 


126  THE  OUTSIDER 

were  both  smoking,  and  talking  rapidly  in  English,  but 
their  words  did  not  carry  across  the  room. 

Mortimer  took  up  the  menu,  rubbed  his  hands  joyously, 
and  began  to  choose. 

"Oysters,"  he  said,  and  almost  felt  them  in  his  mouth. 
"With  lemon,  ah?" 

"Right"  said  Ezra,  watching  the  curious  couple  on  the 
other  side  of  the  room. 

"Rabbit,"  said  Mortimer-,  "pommes  f rites,  Cam.enibert — 
and  one  solitary  bottle  of  Asti.  What,  do  you  say  ? ' ' 

"Good,"  answered  Ezra. 

Mortimer  .passed  -the  order  on  to  the  waiter,  an.d  then 
leaned'  back  and  looked  -through  half -closed  eyes  at  the  city. 
AH  his  content  and  restf-ulness-  came  over  -him  .anew.  Let 
others  have  aims  and  ambitions*and  social  worries  and  neigh- 
bors and  relatives  a;nd  complications.  He  was  here  alone, 
disentangled  by  one  effort,  free,  free. 

The  dinner  was  excellently  prepared-,  the  oysters  whole- 
some and  fresh,  the  rabbit  meat  firm,  and  tasting  almost 
like  duck.  The  fried  potatoes  came  in  a  golden  hillock, 
crisp,  curling  daintily  at  the  edges,  hot.  Ezra  showed 
Mortimer  that  there  is  only  one  way  of  eating  a  plateful 
of  French-fried  potatoes,  and  that  is,  to  work  round  the 
edges,  closing  in  gradually  on  the  centre;  in  this  way  an 
even  temperature  is  maintained — otherwise  the  chips  at 
the  edge  grow  too  cold  to  be  eaten.  The  Asti  went  well 
with  the  Camembert,  for  Camembert  is  slightly  rancid, 
and  Asti  sweet,  tasting  of  grape. 

At  four  o'clock,  when  they  went  'out  again,  the  wind  had 
fallen  and  the  sunlight  across  the  city  was  calmer  and 
richer.  They  went  down  the  wooden  steps  and  emerged, 
after  two  turns,  on  the  rue  Rochechouart,  leading  downhill 
to  the  outer  boulevards. 

As  they  passed  near  the  corner  of  the  Dufayel  Depart- 


THE  OUTSIDER  127 

ment  Store,  Ezra  gripped  Mortimer  by  the  arm  suddenly, 
and  said,  "Look  at  those  two  girls  across  the  way." 

Mortimer  looked,  saw  a  tall,  dark  girl  in  a  grey  coat, 
and  a  little  blond  girl  in  a  black  silky  coat,  extraordinarily 
dainty.  The  taller  girl,  as  Ezra  raised  his  hat  to  her, 
raised  her  hand  and  smiled  frankly.  Ezra  waited  not  a 
moment.  He  laughed,  linked  his  arm  in  Mortimer's,  and 
started  across  the  street.  Both  girls  stopped  for  them. 

"Good-day,  ladies." 

"Good-day,  gentlemen,"  said  the  taller  girl.  The  little 
one  looked  away,  smiling  delightfully.  The  yellow  curls 
came  out  from  under  a  close-fitting  hat;  her  eyes  were 
bright  blue,  there  were  freckles  on  her  cheeks  and  on  her 
little  turn-up  nose.  Mortimer  looked  at  her  with  overt 
pleasure. 

"You  are  walking?"  said  Ezra. 

"As  you  see." 

"Walking  whither?" 

"Chasing  boredom  in  any  direction." 

The  four  walked  together  now,  Ezra  on  the  side  of  the 
tall  brunette,  Mortimer  with  the  little  girl,  who  looked  in 
front  of  her  all  the  time,  smiling,  elfin,  but  wordless. 

"We  also,"  said  Ezra.  "And  we've  found  excellent 
company  for  the  chase." 

"You're  rather  premature,"  said  the  tall  girl,  smiling. 
It  was  a  strange  and  yet  friendly  smile,  and  her  voice, 
low-pitched  and  clear,  had  a  sad  ring  in  it.  "But  if  you 
are  willing  to  gamble  on  the  quality  of  our  company,  we 
will  on  yours." 

"You  have  no  comment  to  offer?"  said  Mortimer  to  the 
younger  girl.  She  flashed  a  brilliant,  childish  look  at  him, 
and  shook  her  head,  making  the  curls  dance. 

"My  friend  speaks  for  me." 

"But  always?" 


128  THE  OUTSIDER 

"Always.     I'm  foolish  myself." 

Mortimer  was  startled  and  amused. 

"But  what  do  you  do  when  your  friend  isn't  there?" 

"I  don't  speak." 

"That's  rather  difficult  for  me." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders,  laughed  and  turned  her  look 
away,  but  made  no  answer. 

"You  are  Montmartroise  ? "  asked  Ezra  of  the  older  girl. 

"Born  in  Montmartre,  cradled  there  and  never  left  it 
for  more  than  a  week,"  said  the  tall  girl.  "You  are 
Belgian." 

"No." 

"Not  French,  though,"  said  the  girl,  "though  you  speak 
French  like  a  Frenchman." 

The  street  became  narrower  here.  Ezra  dropped  behind 
and  Mortimer  walked  in  front  with  the  little  blond  girl. 
She  was  altogether  at  her  ease,  despite  her  wordlessness. 
On  her  bright  face  the  same  smile  always  played.  A 
natural  self-certainty  spoke  in  her  smile  and  her  walk. 
Mortimer  began  to  feel  uncomfortable  after  thirty  seconds 
of  silence.  One  had  to  say  something. 

"Please,  what  is  your  name?" 

"Gaby." 

"Is  that  all?" 

"That's  all." 

Another  uncomfortable  silence.     He  racked  his  brain. 

"And  how  old  are  you,  please?" 

"Eighteen." 

He  wished  she  would  ask  him  something  in  exchange, 
but  she  walked  daintily  on,  quite  oblivious  of  him. 

"What  is  your  friend's  name,  please?" 

"Fernande." 

"Is  she  a  relative  of  yours?" 

"She's  my  cousin." 


THE  OUTSIDER  129 

Silence  again. 

"Can't  you  tell  me  something?"  he  asked  at  last. 

"No,  I'm  foolish." 

"Nonsense,  you  seem  to  understand  what  I  say." 

She  shook  her  head,  smiled  again,  and  made  no  reply. 

"Must  I  do  all  the  talking?"  he  asked,  desperate. 

"Out." 

"And  suppose  I  don't  do  any  talking?" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.     "That's  quite  alright." 

"But  I  have  to  talk,  nom  d'une  pipe,"  insisted  Mortimer. 

"Well,  talk." 

"Very  well,  then,"  he  said,  exasperated.  "I  won't  talk." 

She  did  not  reply.  So  in  silence  they  went  down  to  the 
corner  of  the  Boulevard.  Mortimer  was  acutely  distressed 
at  first  and  then,  to  his  amusement,  found  that  it  was  quite 
easy  to  observe  silence.  Her  bright  presence  was  a 
pleasure  in  itself;  he  looked  sideways  at  her  from  time  to 
time  and  admired,  not  without  being  puzzled,  the  sans 
gene  and  freedom  of  her  bearing.  She  was  debonair  and 
untroubled. 

"Do  you  never  talk  to  anybody,"  he  asked  at  the  corner. 

"No,  I'm  foolish." 

"How  do  you  know  you  are  foolish?" 

"Everybody  says  so." 

"Who's  everybody?" 

"Mother,  Fernande." 

"But  doesn't  it  bore  you  to  walk  in  silence  all  the  time?" 

"No."    She  opened  her  eyes. 

"Do  you  like  walking  with  somebody?" — he  was  ap- 
proaching the  imbecilic. 

"I  like  walking  with  you." 

"You  funny  little  devil,"  he  said  to  himself,  curiously 
pleased. 

A  little  beyond  the  corner  of  the  Boulevard  Ezra  and 


130  THE  OUTSIDER 

Fernande  caught  up  with  them.  Ezra  was  talking  easily 
and  gracefully,  by  now  thoroughly  at  his  ease. 

"We're  all  going  to  take  a  drink,  you  two,"  he  said. 
"We  can  go  in  here. 

As  they  sat  down  Fernande  looked  maliciously  at  Mort- 
imer. 

"My  little  cousin  is  not  talkative,"  she  said,  slyly. 

"Ah,  non,  par  exemple,"  agreed  Mortimer.  "But  it 
doesn't  matter,  does  it,  Mademoiselle  Gaby." 

"Not  at  all." 

"My  friend  Ezra  doesn't  suffer  from  lack  of  words," 
said  Mortimer.  "You  have  found  that  out." 

' '  Your  friend  is  very  amusing  and  very  clever, ' '  affirmed 
Fernande.  "And  he  is  a  man  of  the  world." 

"I  explained  to  her  the  difference  between  the  sexes," 
said  Ezra.  ' '  I  pointed  out  that  a  man  is  a  man  for  a  man 's 
sake,  whereas  a  woman  is  a  woman  for — a  man's  .sake. 
She  says  the  definition  pleases  her." 

"Perfectly,"  said  Fernande.  "It's  the  summary  of  our 
slavery.  Whatever  a  woman  does  it's  with  the  thought 
of  a  man  in  her  mind.  And  a  man  does  many  things 
without  the  thought  of  a  woman  in  his  mind." 

"  'Tis  of  man's  life  a  thing  apart,"  quoted  Ezra,  "but 
I  prefer  my  epigram.  I'm  sorry  to  point  out  the  inferi- 
ority of  your  sex  after  so  short  an  acquaintance — with  you, 
I  mean,  not  your  sex.  But  what  do  you  want?  The  bon 
Dieu  made  us,  and  the  fault  is  not  mine.  Man  was  his 
first  inspiration  and  woman  a  sequel,  and  like  all  sequels, 
something  of  a  failure." 

"I  wouldn't  complain  if  man  lived  up  to  the  dignity 
of  his  superiority." 

Again  Mortimer  heard  the  fascinating  undertone  of  sad- 
ness in  the  dark  girl's  voice. 


THE  OUTSIDER  131 

"We  were  created  a  long  time  ago,"  said  Ezra.  "You 
mustn't  wonder  if  we've  deteriorated  a  little." 

He  was  talking  for  show.  Mortimer  could  see  that  he 
did  not  care  what  he  said  as  long  as  it  struck.  Even  a 
man  like  Ezra  showed  off  before  a  woman.  But  he  did 
talk  well,  never  at  a  loss  for  a  comment,  always  skillful  in 
bringing  on  a  second  subject  when  the  first  was  failing. 
He  talked  mostly  of  men  and  women,  sometimes  of  man  and 
woman,  anecdotes,  epigrams,  amusing  questions.  In  the 
end  Mortimer  was  almost  irritated  by  this  effortless  fruit- 
lessness;  it  was  in  essence  artificial;  behind  their  frontage 
of  intellectuality  the  remarks  were  for  the  most  part  ex- 
traordinarily meaningless.  Yet  he  went  on,  fluent,  inter- 
esting, tireless.  The  dark  girl  followed  him,  quick  to 
understand,  and  vividly  interested.  She  wanted  to  be  in- 
terested, and  Ezra  interested  her. 

As  they  were  going  out  of  the  cafe  Ezra  was  explaining 
that  thei*e  are  thousands  of  different  ways  of  falling  in 
love,  but  only  one  way  of  falling  out  of  love ;  he  did  this 
as  cleverly  as  Mortimer  had  once  heard  him  explain  that 
all  falling  in  love  was  the  same  biologic  process,  but  falling 
out  of  love  called  for  the  exercise  of  individuality. 

"What  a  miserable  charlatan  you  are,  Ezra,"  he  said, 
laughing,  but  with  a  twinge  of  vexation.  He  said  this  in 
English. 

' '  Rubbish,  dear  boy.  Don 't  you  see  the  poor  girl  is  just 
dying  to  be  talked  to  at  great  length?  Besides,  I  just  like 
talking." 

Mortimer  and  Gaby  walked  on  again  in  front,  towards 
the  Place  Blanche.  The  unexacting  restfulness  of  his  little 
companion  startled  Mortimer  now  after  Fernande's  ex- 
hausting interest  in  conversation.  v 

"If  I  knew  you  for  a  year,"  he  asked  suddenly,  "and 


132  THE  OUTSIDER 

never  said  a  word,  would  that  make  any  difference  to  your 
liking  me  or  not  liking  me!" 

"No." 

"You  are  not  like  your  cousin,  eh?" 

"No." 

"She  wants  to  be  talked  to." 

"Yes." 

"She  is  nervous?" 

"She  is  neurasthenic,"  volunteered  Gaby. 

"Oh." 

"Her  lover  committed  suicide  a  few  months  ago." 

"The  devil!"  said  Mortimer.  "That's  why  she's  neu- 
rasthenic ? ' ' 

"Yes." 

"She  must  have  loved  him  very  much." 

"Yes." 

Mortimer  fell  into  silence  again,  and  his  thoughts  re- 
verted to  the  strangeness  of  random  meetings.  In  a 
crowded  street,  where  all  faces  are  composed  to  a  proper 
decorum,  one  would  think  human  beings  so  much  alike; 
and  indeed,  one  treats  them  thus  in  a  crowd.  But  next 
to  you  might  walk  a  murderer,  and  in  front  of  you,  staring 
at  you,  might  be  a  man  contemplating  suicide,  or  theft, 
or  revenge,  or  dreaming  of  his  dead  love,  or  suffering  from 
toothache,  or  desperate  with  financial  worry.  This  was  the 
chief  ground  for  tolerance  in  life — you  could  not  know 
what  the  next  man  was  passing  through.  From  these  gen- 
eral thoughts  he  came  back  to  the  little  girl  walking  with 
him.  She  was  not  ordinary;  she  was  not  foolish.  Her 
presence  spoke  too  sharply,  her  face  was  too  living.  But 
she  did  not  seem  to  perceive  people  by  their  conversation. 
She  had  another  sense  perhaps,  another  source  of  communi- 
cation. She  walked  in  free  silence,  pleased  either  with  her 
thoughts  or  with  a  subconscious  stream  of  feelings. 


THE  OUTSIDER  133 

At  the  bottom  of  the  rue  Blanche  Ezra — still  talking 
smoothly — and  Fernande,  caught  up  with  them. 

"It  is  six  o'clock,"  said  Fernande,  "we  must  go  back 
or  Gaby's  mother  will  scold  me." 

"We're  going  to  meet  again,  aren't  we?"  said  Mortimer, 
anxiously. 

"Your  friend  suggested  next  Wednesday  evening  at  the 
cafe  opposite  the  corner  of  the  rue  Joseph  Dijon.  I  can 
come  with  Gaby  then." 

"That  will  suit  me,"  said  Mortimer,  and  then  thought 
of  adding  that  he  really  meant  to  be  there  and  did  not 
wish  to  be  disappointed,  but  he  kept  that  back.  He  shook 
hands  with  Fernande,  and  then  with  Gaby.  The  latter, 
as  she  took  his  hand,  looked  up  at  him  with  a  smile  of 
extraordinary  brightness. 

"Au  revoir." 

*'Au  revoir,  a  Merer edi." 

"What  a  strange  child,"  burst  out  Mortimer,  as  they 
turned  homewards. 

' '  What  a  strange  woman, ' '  added  Ezra. 

' '  She 's  like  a  pretty  little  goblin, ' '  said  Mortimer.  ' '  Did 
you  ever  see  anything  so  pert,  so  Devil-may-careish,  and 
so  comically  dignified?" 

"She  is  a  strange  child,  from  what  I  noticed,"  said  Ezra, 
"but  I  was  interested  in  Fernande.  She  is  not  an  ordinary 
girl." 

"This  is  the  most  marvellous  city  in  the  world,"  said 
Mortimer,  excitedly.  "Is  there  another  city  in  the  world 
where  you  can  go  out  and  find  people  just  like  that?" 

"No  city  that  I  know  of,"  agreed  Ezra. 

"In  other  cities,  to  meet  somebody  on  the  street  in  that 
way  is  just  horrible  —  even  to  me,"  said  Mortimer. 
"Here,  it's  natural." 

They  walked  home  slowly,  pleased  with  their  afternoon, 


134  THE  OUTSIDER 

and  pleased  with  their  adventure.  At  the  door  of  the 
hotel  they  calculated  that  their  afternoon  had  cost  them 
over  a  little  hundred  francs ;  but  Mortimer 's  content  could 
not  be  overclouded.  He  went  up  into  his  room,  alone, 
lit  the  fire  and  put  on  his  slippers,  and  with  his  pipe 
drawing  easily  between  his  teeth,  read  Verlaine  by  the 
last  sunlight  and  when  that  failed  utterly  dreamed  over 
the  last  lines  he  had  read: 

Je  me  souviens,  je  me  souviens, 
Des  heures  et  des  entretiens, 
Et  c'est  le  meilleur  de  mes  biens. 
Dansons  la  gigue. 


CHAPTER  VII 

IN  A  thin,  desolating  rain  Mortimer  walked  along  the 
rue  St.  Honore  towards  the  Hotel  Albion.  Fastened  under 
his  coat  was  a  bundle  of  manuscript,  part  of  a  translation 
he  was  working  on  for  a  Mr.  Lockwood,  an  American,  to 
whom  old  Lessar  had  sent  him  a  few  days  before.  This 
Mr.  Lockwood  was  the  second  link  in  a  chain  that  he  hoped 
to  forge.  There  was  plenty  of  fugitive  work  in  Paris, 
he  knew,  in  part  commercial,  in  part  literary.  The  prob- 
lem was  how  to  reach  the  people  who  wanted  the  work 
done.  His  belief  was  that  from  a  beginning  with  Lessar 
he  could  build  up  slowly  a  connection  among  the  resident 
English  and  Americans  in  Paris  and  through  them  reach 
the  transients.  It  should  not  be  difficult  to  make  a  living ; 
he  needed  six  or  seven  hundred  francs  a  month.  There 
were  thousands  and  thousands  of  foreigners  resident  in 
Paris  who  would  need  his  fugitive  services,  and  thousands 
and  thousands  of  others  passing  through  a  city  whose 
language  was  strange  to  them.  He  needed  only  to  meet  a 
couple  of  them  every  week — perhaps  only  four  a  month; 
and  he  was  confident  that  with  a  little  persistence  he  would 
meet  them. 

The  work  under  his  coat,  a  translation  into  English  of 
the  prospectus  of  a  French  cold  meat  Company,  was  due 
a  few  days  hence;  but  Lockwood,  at  their  first  meeting, 
had  said  something  about  a  lady  he  knew  who  had  asked 
for  secretarial  work.  At  that  time  Mortimer  had  not  felt 
it  decent  to  ask  for  details ;  later  he  upbraided  himself  for 
his  misplaced  sensitiveness.  Now,  following  the  revels  of 
Saturday  and  Sunday,  his  finances  worried  him ;  he  would 
see  Mr.  Lockwood  on  the  pretext  of  delivering  part  of  the 

135 


136  THE  OUTSIDER 

work  and  ask  boldly  for  the  lady's  name  and  address.  He 
had  gathered  that  she  was  the  President  of  an  American 
"Women's  Anti-Bolshevist  Organisation  who  had  come 
specially  to  Paris  to  obtain  a  message  of  encouragement 
from  M.  Clemenceau  and  had,  after  a  month's  manipula- 
tion, reached  a  man  who  could  introduce  her  to  an  acquaint- 
ance of  M.  Mandel.  Mortimer  visualised  the  lady  from 
these  facts  and  rejoiced  in  the  thought  that  she  would 
probably  pay  a  good  price. 

As  he  walked  through  the  rain  he  calculated  cheerfully. 
Copying  of  manuscript  was  the  lowest  paid  form  of  any 
work,  but  at  six  francs  a  hundred  lines  he  could  still  make 
twelve  francs  an  hour — five  hours  a  day,  sixty  francs — 
fifteen  hundred  francs  a  month,  which  was  handsome. 
Translation  was  twenty  francs  a  hundred  lines — less  than 
an  hour's  -work.  Fifteen  hundred  francs  a  month  was, 
then,  a  moderate  estimate  of  what  he  should  be  earning. 
It  needed  only  a  little  preliminary  energy  and  he  would 
be  out  of  all  danger,  out  of  the  reach  of  all  worry;  and 
his  own  master. 

He  went  in  by  the  revolving  door  in  the  Place  Jeanne 
d'Arc  and  approached  the  inquiry  desk.  A  crowd  pressed 
in  front  of  him  and  Mortimer,  conscious  that  he  was  not 
one  of  the  princely  clientele,  waited  to  get  a  word  in. 
The  clerk  behind  the  desk,  a  heavy,  bald-headed  man,  with 
handsome  moustaches  and  an  irrefragible  and  unbecoming 
smile,  evinced  an  exhaustless,  overcoloured  courtesy.  Morti- 
mer watched  his  gyrations  with  some  curiosity  until  the 
crowd  had  melted  away,  and  then  permitted  himself  to 
address  him  in  French. 

"Is  Mr.  Lockwood  in?" 

"Mr.  Lockwood?  One  moment,  Sir.  No,  Sir.  Mr. 
Lockwood  is  gone." 

"Do  you  know  what  time  he  will  be  back?" 


THE  OUTSIDER  137 

"He  is  gone,  Sir.     Left  the  hotel." 

"Oh!"  Dismay  seized  on  Mortimer.  "But  that's  im- 
possible. I  have  an  appointment  with  him." 

"I  am  sorry,  Sir.  He  left  last  night.  Would  you  like 
his  new  address,  Sir?" 

Hope  revived.     "Thank  you.     If  you  please." 

"Ah — Vaeco,  Texah" — which  Mortimer  recognised  des- 
pairingly as  Waco,  Tex.  He  stood  his  ground,  undecided. 

"It's  very  funny,"  he  said,  stammering  a  little.  "He 
gave  me  some  secretarial  work  to  do  for  him,  for  next 
week. '  * 

An  astonishing  change  came  over  the  clerk's  face.  The 
courteous  smile  vanished  and  the  heavy  features  relapsed 
with  an  almost  audible  snap  into  a  cold  indifference. 

"He's  gone — parti,"  he  said,  in  a  new  voice,  and  turned 
his  back  on  Mortimer  to  consult  a  book.  He  was  either 
annoyed  to  have  wasted  professional  courtesy  on  a  mere 
secretary  or  this  was  his  natural  "off-duty"  demeanor. 
Mortimer  waited  till  he  turned  round  again. 

"Can  you  please  give  me  his  complete  name  and  ad- 
dress?" 

The  clerk  surveyed  him  with  heavy  displeasure.  "Ex- 
cuse me,"  he  said,  frigidly.  "You  should  not  have  come 
in  by  this  door.  You  should  have  noticed  that  there  is  a 
special  door  for  tradesmen.  You  must  apply  at  that  door 
for  information.  This  door  is  for  the  clientele  and  their 
friends. ' ' 

Mortimer  stood  stone-still  with  amazement  and  then  the 
blood  rushed  suddenly  into  his  head. 

"Why,  you  damned  flunkey,"  he  burst  out,  in  English. 

The  clerk  ignored  him  for  a  moment  and  then,  with  an 
unpleasant  brusqueness  repeated  in  French  "You  must 
leave  this  entrance." 

Mortimer  trembled  with  fury.    "I'll  stay  here  as  long 


138  THE  OUTSIDER 

as  I  care  to,  you  damned  janitor,"  he  said  in  a  cold  rage, 
and  took  out  a  cigarette.  He  turned  from  the  desk  and 
sat  down  in  a  chair.  Two  or  three  loungers  who  had 
heard  the  raised  voice  regarded  him  curiously.  Mortimer 
lit  the  cigarette  with  a  hand  that  shivered  and  bit  the  end 
of  it  viciously.  He  was  seeing  red.  The  clerk  finished 
making  an  entry  into  a  book,  signalled  to  two  porters,  and 
indicated  Mortimer  contemptuously. 

The  two  men  approached.  "You  must  leave  this  hotel, 
Monsieur,"  said  one  of  them,  "immediately." 

"Who  is  that  man?"  asked  Mortimer. 

"It  is  the  manager. 

A  brief,  wild  instant,  Mortimer  felt  that  the  only  thing 
to  do  was  to  knock  both  men  down.  He  sprang  to  his 
feet  suddenly — and  then  a  bitter  prudence  checked  him. 
He  set  his  teeth,  picked  up  his  hat,  and  turned  to  the 
manager. 

"Your  famous  French  politeness  is  only  for  people  who 
can  grease  your  palm,  I  suppose,"  he  said,  choking. 
"Here!"  He  took  out  a  two  franc  piece  and  flung  it  with 
a  ringing  sound  on  the  counter.  ' '  In  my  country  we  don 't 
keep  such  vermin,"  he  added,  and  made  swiftly  for  the 
door.  The  manager  bounced  out  from  behind  the  counter 
and  caught  up  with  him  near  the  revolving  door — but  just 
too  late.  Mortimer  heard  his  furious  voice  as  he  went  out 
— "If  you  set  foot  in  here  I'll  have  you  thrown  out." 

"Vermin,  dirty  vermin,"  he  repeated,  between  his  teeth. 
An  illogical  hatred  and  contempt  for  the  people  and  the 
country  filled  his  heart  as  he  almost  ran  through  the  rain. 

"That's  the  calibre  of  all  their  courtesy — these  men," 
he  muttered.  He  was  still  trembling  in  every  limb.  He 
wanted  to  turn  back,  rush  in,  and  knock  that  fellow  down. 
He  conjured  up  again  the  villainous  features,  leering  ole- 
aginously  to  guests  and  transferring  to  him  their  natural 


THE  OUTSIDER  139 

brutality.  In  a  few  minutes,  however,  the  first  intolerable 
smart  of  the  incident  left  him.  He  reflected  that  most 
men  who  have  to  receive  tips  develop  that  mentality. 

"That's  his  way  of  looking  at  life,"  he  meditated  bit- 
terly. " Goodness  to  him  is  in  terms  of  tips;  I  am  in  my 
very  nature  evil  to  him — penurious  tiplessness.  If  all  the 
world  were  like  me  he  would  starve  at  that  trade." 

He  recalled  the  exquisite  satire  of  Swift  in  that  part  of 
Gulliver's  Travels  when,  returned  from  Brobdignag,  he 
looks  with  astonishment  and  contempt  on  the  pigmy  race 
of  mankind.  Himself  a  pigmy,  he  had  lived  so  long  among1 
giants  that  anyone  but  a  giant  was  beneath  his  contempt. 
So  the  bank  clerk,  whose  salary  is  perhaps  a  hundred  dol- 
lars a  month,  and  who  has  not  a  dime  saved  up,  looks  with 
contempt  on  the  fellow  who  comes  to  deposit  a  paltry 
thousand  dollars.  A  thousand  dollars?  "Pooh,  a  feller 
was  in  this  morning  who  deposited  a  clear  hundred  thou- 
sand in  notes."  And  John,  the  chauffeur,  has  so  long 
driven  another  man's  automobile  that  he  forgets  himself 
and  wonders  to  what  rabble  a  man  belongs  who  has  not 
even  a  motor-cycle. 

These  philosophic  reflections  did  little  to  ease  the  bitter- 
ness of  his  heart.  In  the  excitement  of  the  insult  he  had 
forgotten  that  two  hundred  francs  had  disappeared  with 
Lockwood — and  the  introduction  to  the  Anti-Bolshevist 
lady  which  was  to  continue  the  endless  chain.  Now  he 
remembered  it  and  cursed  the  American  heartily  with  the 
Frenchman — and  cursed  with  equal  cordiality  the  neces- 
sity of  going  round  begging  for  work.  This  resentment 
mingled,  when  he  reached  his  room  and  sat  down  to  think, 
with  a  growing  alarm  at  the  condition  of  his  exchequer. 
His  incipient  commercial  enthusiasm  had  evaporated.  In 
its  place  was  disgust  and  rage — and  momentary  but  agon- 
ising longings  for  money — lots  of  it — so  that  he  could  speak 


140  THE  OUTSIDER 

firmly  in  that  vile  language  to  those  primitive  beasts  who 
understood  no  other.  He  was  angry  with  himself  that  such 
a  fellow  as  the  manager  should  be  able  to  move  him  so, 
and  angry  that  he  should  long  for  the  means  to  crush 
him  with  his  own  base  weapons.  "I  can't  help  it,"  he 
admitted  at  last.  "I'm  not  a  perfect  Christian,  and  mere 
wit  won't  move  a  swine  like  that.  If  I  can't  show  him  he's 
mean — and  I  can't — I  want  to  knock  him  down.  It 
wouldn't  do  any  good — it  would  set  him  firmly  in  evil — 
but  I'd  like  to  do  it." 

After  sitting  for  some  time  eating  himself  with  these 
thoughts  he  made  an  effort  to  read,  and  could  not  compose 
himself;  the  face  of  the  hotel  manager  would  come  up  on 
the  page,  and  send  a  shaft  of  rage  through  him.  In  the 
end,  unwilling  to  waste  his  afternoon  in  this  stupid  exer- 
cise, he  took  up  some  of  Lessar's  manuscript  and  set  to 
typing  furiously.  The  mechanical  exertion  calmed  him  as 
he  worked  on.  Instead  of  anger  came  a  quiet  depression. 
Slowly  he  forgot  himself  in  the  work,  the  hours  passed. 

By  nightfall,  tired  with  work,  but  in  a  better  mood,  he 
could  think  more  evenly  over  the  incident  in  the  Hotel 
Albion,  and  even  forgive  Lockwood  for  his  dishonesty  or 
carelessness.  But  the  depression  was  there.  He  looked 
forward  with  frank  pleasure  to  meeting  little  Carmen.  It 
would  be  good  to  see  her  again  and  feel  her  anxious  affec- 
tion wrapping  him  round.  She  was  good — whatever  she 
wanted  of  him. 

He  hastened  through  his  dinner,  regretting  that  he  had 
not  asked  Carmen  to  eat  with  him  that  evening.  The 
food  was  tasteless  and  Francois  was  more  stupid  than  ever. 
He  kept  the  meal  carefully  down  to  three  francs,  reflecting 
with  irony  that  wonderful  indeed  are  the  ways  of  improvi- 
dence; but  whatever  money  he  had  spent  was  no  reason 
for  new  intemperances.  His  mathematical  mind  ran  ex- 


THE  OUTSIDER  141 

asperatingly  over  the  possibilities  of  the  four  hundred 
francs  or  so  he  had  just  thrown  to  the  winds ;  they  meant 
two  months'  rent;  or  they  meant  more  than  one  hundred 
dinners  at  "the  Hole,"  tips  included.  They  meant  two 
cheap  but  decent  suits  of  clothes;  he  permuted  them 
through  every  possible  use,  till  he  felt  he  had  spent  not 
four  hundred  but  four  thousand  francs. 

He  was  glad  to  be  through  with  the  meal,  and  glad  to 
think  that  Carmen  would  be  so  happy  to  see  him.  He 
thought  of  her  face,  and  of  the  honest,  affectionate,  brown 
eyes ;  and  when  he  opened  the  door  of  the  cafe  and  saw  her, 
from  the  corner,  turn  her  expectant  face  swiftly  and  light 
up  to  see  him,  his  answering  smile  came  from  his  heart. 
He  raised  his  hand  to  Masters,  sitting  alone  with  Renee, 
and  to  Gorman,  at  another  table,  but  he  went  over  straight 
to  the  girl.  He  took  her  hand  in  his  and  patted  it  and 
continued  smiling  at  her. 

"How  is  it,  Carmen?" 

"Fine,  little  one." 

"Been  waiting  long?" 

"No,  only  a  minute.    Oh,  I  am  so  glad  you  came." 

"Are  you?" 

"Yes.  I  thought  you  mightn't  come.  You  were  so 
angry  with  me  Friday  evening.  I  thought  perhaps  you 
might  never  want  to  see  me  again." 

"Foolish  Carmen,"  he  patted  her  hand  again. 

Prudence  told  him  insistently  and  coldly  that  his  reck- 
less affection  was  dangerous.  If  he  wanted  the  girl  to 
understand  his  way  of  thinking  it  was  better  to  show  his 
heart  less  freely.  But  he  liked  her  and  he  wanted  her 
kindness  too  much  at  that  moment. 

"Oui,"  she  said,  with  her  wide  eyes  fixed  unswervingly 
on  his  face !  "if  you  knew  how  much  I  was  afraid !  Friday 


142  THE  OUTSIDER 

night  I  could  not  sleep  because  you  had  been  angry  with 
me." 

"But  I  wasn't  angry  with  you,  my  poor  little  Carmen." 

"Then  why  did  you  send  me  away  from  you?" 

"Because —  '  it  was  rather  difficult  to  explain,  but  he 
made  the  attempt — "because  I  sometimes  want  to  be  alone 
— for  no  reason.  You  may  be  my  best  friend,  but  I  must 
be  quite  free." 

' '  But  you  will  never  be  angry  with  me  again  ? ' '  she  asked, 
very  timidly. 

He  tried  to  be  annoyed  by  her  simplicity  and  could  not. 

"I  will  never  be  angry  with  you  again,"  he  sighed.  "You 
are  a  very  good  little  girl,  Carmen." 

"Ah,  Mortimer,  really?     You  are  so  kind,  so  gentil!" 

Her  gratitude  almost  hurt  him.  He  felt  not  at  all  gentil 
— if  anything,  he  was  conscious  of  a  certain  meanness. 

"Mortimer,  you  are  sad." 

"A  little,  mon  petit." 

"You  have  worries,  n'est-ce  pas,  Mortimer?"  Her 
voice  was  very  gentle. 

"No,"  he  said,  frowning,  and  thinking  how  much  more 
real  were  her  worries.  "There's  nothing  wrong." 

"I  don't  want  you  to  have  worries,  Mortimer." 

He  played  again  with  her  hand.  "You  are  a  very  good 
little  girl,  Carmen,"  he  said,  sincerely.  Then  he  put  his 
hand  on  her  shoulder,  and  leaned  very  slightly  on  her. 
He  felt  her  vivid  affection  warming  him.  His  eyes,  wan- 
dering across  the  room,  lit  on  Masters,  chatting  softly  with 
Renee. 

"Edmond  is  gone,"  said  Carmen.  "I  saw  Renee  kiss 
Monsieur  Masters." 

"Mind  your  own  business,  Carmen,"  said  Mortimer 
smiling,  and  shaking  her  a  little. 


THE  OUTSIDER  143 

"I  know  still  more,"  she  continue^  encouraged  by  the 
manner  of  his  rebuke. 

"'I  don't  want  to  hear  it.     Good  evening,  Gorman." 

Gorman  came  over  suddenly.  "Good  evening,  Long." 
In  a  lower  voice — ' '  does  your  kid  understand  English. ' ' 

"A  little." 

"I  wanna  speak  with  you,  Long." 

Mortimer  believed  a  request  for  a  loan  was  imminent, 
and  his  heart  sank.  He  felt  it  would  be  dangerous  to  lend 
out  his  last  few  hundred  francs. 

"Go  ahead." 

* '  I  don 't  want  the  kid  to  get  me,  so  I  '11  speak  low.  How 
are  you  fixed  for  money,  Long?" 

"Badly,  old  man.    I  mean  it." 

"I  don't  want  to  borrow  any — I  wanna  show  you  how 
to  make  some  for  yourself  if  you've  got  a  little." 

"I've  got  a  few  hundred  francs,  and  that's  all  I've  got." 

"It's  enough.  I'll  let  you  in  on  this  because  you  did 
me  a  good  turn  the  other  day — and  you're  a  good  feller. 
Listen;  you  know  lots  o'  folk  in  Paris,  don't  you?" 

"A  few,"  said  Mortimer,  beginning  to  fear  in  advance 
Gorman's  proposition. 

"Look  here,  you  know  what  this  is."  Gorman  went 
through  a  series  of  incomprehensible  motions  with  his  hands 
and  ended  by  inhaling  deeply  and  lowering  his  eyelids, 
assuming  at  the  same  time  a  happy,  sleepy  look.  Then 
he  smiled  at  Mortimer  cunningly.  ' '  Know  what  that  is  ? " 

"No."  Then  he  bethought  himself,  and  less  Gorman's 
pantomime  than  Gorman's  manner  and  reputation  sent  the 
startling  idea  into  his  head.  "Opium!" 

"Sht!    Yah!" 

Mortimer  stared  at  Gorman  a  moment  and  then  stared 
elsewhere,  not  knowing  what  to  reply ;  not  that  he  felt  the 
slightest  inclination  to  become  a  partner  of  Gorman's — but 


144  THE  OUTSIDER     . 

to  be  indignant  would  have  been  priggish,  to  be  grateful 
would  have  been  affected. 

"What  d'ye  say,  Long?" 

"No,  Gorman." 

"Are  you  scared?" 

"No."     Indeed,  that  had  not  occurred  to  him. 

"Long,  if  you're  in  need  of  money  you  can  make  some. 
I  can  get  you  the  genuine  stuff  at  less  than  a  franc  a 
gram.  There's  thousands  of  folks  in  Paris  who'll  pay 
three  francs  a  gram  for  it." 

Long  shook  his  head. 

"It's  safe,  Long,  or  I  wouldn't  do  it  myself.  I  get  it 
straight  from  the  feller  that  makes  the  stuff — all  I  want." 

Mortimer  was  suddenly  curious  to  know  Gorman's  point 
of  view. 

"Look  here,  Gorman,  it  isn't  a  white  game.  You  know 
what  happens  to  the  people  that  use  this  stuff.  Why  do 
you  handle  it?" 

Gorman  was  almost  hurt.  "Aw,  now,  Long,  that's  all 
foolish  talk.  You  know  there's  folks  that  just  can't  do 
without  it.  They  just  have  to  have  it.  And  if  I  don't 
give  it  to  'em  somebody  else  will.  It  ain't  doing  'em  any 
good  if  I  don't  handle  the  stuff  and  I'm  just  so  much 
money  short.  And  being  that  that's  how  it  is,  why 
should  some  other  son  of  a  gun  get  the  benefit  out  of  it  ? " 

"That's  deliberate  and  purposeful  sophistry,  Gorman," 
said  Mortimer,  unable  to  think  of  anything  better. 

"I  don't  get  you." 

"Never  mind.    I  don't  want  the  stuff." 

"That's  too  bad,  Long.  You  could  make  money  quick. 
It  ain't  my  fault  if  you  don't  want  it." 

"I  guess  you  mean  well,  Gorman." 

Gorman  remained  sitting,  downcast,  and  Carmen  drew 
Mortimer  towards  her  and  replaced  his  hand  on  her 


THE  OUTSIDER  145 

shoulder.  Soon  Gorman  went  back  to  his  table  across  the 
room,  muttering  regretfully. 

"Did  he  want  some  money  from  you,  cheri,"  whispered 
Carmen. 

"No,  mow  petit." 

"You  know,  Mortimer,  he  is  a  very  good  boy." 

"Why?" 

' '  Yesterday,  in  here,  somebody  said  something  bad  about 
you.  I  understood,  and  Monsieur  Gorman  defended  you." 

"Don't  tell  me  about  it,  Carmen,"  said  Mortimer,  hast- 
ily, but  amazed  that  people  in  this  place  should  talk 
about  him.  Ezra?  Never.  Masters?  Teddy? 

"Yes,  I  want  to  tell  you." 

"You  mustn't,  Carmen,  I'm  not  interested." 

"Oh,  Mortimer,  here  he  is." 

The  door  had  swung  open.  Old  Cray,  blind  drunk, 
lurched  in,  and  looked  round,  his  face  twitching  evilly. 
After  him  came  two  young  men  that  Mortimer  knew 
vaguely — Maxie,  an  American  boxer,  and  one  Fulson,  a 
demobolised  American  soldier.  Cray  collapsed  in  a  chair 
and  glowered  round  him.  Maxie  and  Fulson  sat  down 
near  Mortimer. 

"You're  friend's  got  a  real  bird  on,"  said  Mortimer, 
indicating  Cray  with  some  contempt. 

The  boxer  nodded.  "He'll  have  the  D.T's  in  a  day  or 
two,  if  he  doesn't  get  sober.  He's  been  like  this  for  a 
week. ' ' 

"You  needn't  look  at  me  like  that,"  stuttered  Cray 
suddenly  at  Mortimer.  "Who  the  hell  are  you?" 

Carmen  pressed  close  to  Mortimer  and  turned  pale. 
Mortimer  ignored  the  old  man,  and  was  sorry  he  had  let 
his  face  express  his  feelings. 

"Who  the  hell  are  you,  I  say?"  the  old  man  repeated, 
raging.  ' '  Saw  you  and  your  friend  and  two  French  w s 


146  THE  OUTSIDEIl 

the  other  evening — all  drunker 'n  me,  ah?  Tell  that  to 
your  little  girl  there." 

Mortimer  grew  cold  with  the  fear  that  Carmen  had 
understood. 

"You're  no  better 'n  me,"  said  old  Cray,  standing  up 
and  foaming  at  Mortimer.  "You're  no  better 'n  anybody 
else.  You  think  you  are,  eh  ? " 

' '  Sit  down,  Cray, ' '  said  Maxie  curtly. 

"To  hell  with  you,  too,"  said  Cray,  but  grinning  at 
him.  "You're  a  good  feller,  and  so  are  all  the  fellers 

here,  but  that  young ,  he  thinks  he's  better 'n  anybody 

else — yes  he  does — Oh  suffering  cats,  she's  here  again." 
He  sat  down. 

His  wife  had  come  in  like  a  whirlwind.  Her  full,  vulgar 
face  was  flushed;  she  was  panting. 

"I've  caught  you  again,  you  dirty  old  boozer,"  she 
hissed,  and  then  turned  dramatically  to  Maxie  and  Fulsom. 
"See  him?  See  him?"  she  shrieked.  "D'ye  know  what 
he  gets  boozed  on?  My  clothes,  steals  my  fur  and  my 
watch  and  pawns  'em,  to  get  drunk." 

"Damn  liar,"  said  Cray,  standing  up  to  her. 

"Who's  a  damn  liar?  Where's  my  fur  and  my  watch? 
Did  you  ever  earn  a  penny  since  you  married  me?" 

Marius  had  come  in  from  the  front  room  bar.  Like 
everybody  else,  he  stared  at  the  husband  and  wife. 

"Get  out  of  here,  Cray,"  said  Maxie.  "You'll  have  the 
police  in." 

"I'm  going,"  said  Cray,  with  a  malevolent  look  at  Morti- 
mer. "I'd  like  to  knock  you  for  a  ghoul,  you  grinning 
young ." 

He  made  for  the  door.  His  wife,  tears  of  rage  and 
hatred  in  her  eyes,  watched  him  staggering.  "You're  a 
fine  husband,"  she  hissed  at  him.  "You  can't  earn  a 
living  and  you  won 't  let  me  earn  one. ' ' 


THE  OUTSIDER  147 

"Go  and  earn  one,"  said  Cray,  turning  round,  and  bal- 
ancing himself. 

"Earn  one,  you  sodden  old  beast?  How  can  I  when  you 
come  in  in  that  condition  to  my  employers  and  I've  got  to 
say  that 's  my  husband  ?  Oh,  get  out  of  this  place. ' ' 

"I'm  going,  I'm  going,"  said  Cray,  swinging  himself  be- 
tween two  tables  near  the  door. 

Mrs.  Cray  tried  to  say  something  and  failed,  so  she 
watched  him  instead,  her  face  blazing.  Finally  he  swung 
clear  of  the  tables  and  went  out  at  a  quick  shamble.  She 
followed  him  and  slammed  the  door  to.  The  Lapin  Cuit  re- 
laxed. Carmen  looked  with  frightened  eyes  at  Mortimer. 

"The  old  man  doesn't  seem  to  like  me,"  said  Mortimer 
to  Maxie. 

"He  sure  don't,"  said  the  boxer.  "But  don't  let  it 
worry  you. ' ' 

Mortimer  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "He's  alright  when 
he 's  sober  and  pretty  helpless  when  he 's  drunk.  What  are 
you  doing  these  days,  Fulson  ?  Have  you  found  a  job  yet  ? ' ' 

Fulson  nodded.  "Got  one  last  week — it  was  time  too. 
I  was  down  on  my  last  franc.  Way  down." 

"What  are  you  doing?" 

"Interpreter  at  the  Bristol." 

"Good  pay?" 

The  other  made  a  wry  face.  "Naw.  You  know  how 
these  Frogs  pay.  But  you  can  make  a  bit  on  tips.  They 
reckon  on  that." 

"What  does  it  make  out  at?" 

"Guess  you  can  clear  five  or  six  hundred  a  month  in  tips. 
They  give  you  two  hundred,  a  room  and  meals.  You  can 
meet  lots  o'  swell  people,  though." 

Mortimer  was  more  interested  than  he  showed.  He  might 
be  wanting  a  job  before  long — the  day's  events  had  un- 
settled his  belief  in  his  typewriting.  The  idea  of  a  "job" 


148  THE  OUTSIDER 

was  repugnant,  and  still  more  repugnant  was  the  idea  of 
one  in  which  "tips"  made  up  the  bulk  of  one's  salary.  If 
he  could  only  clear  his  seven  hundred  a  month — only  six 
hundred  even.  He  fell  into  despairing  calculations  again 
— the  minimum  on  which  a  man  can  live  in  Paris. 

Maxie  and  Fulson  were  talking  of  the  races.  Masters 
was  absorbed  in  Renee ;  there  was  quiet  in  the  cafe.  Some- 
thing in  Masters  displeased  him — something  too  urgent  and 
yet  abject  in  his  attentions  to  Renee.  He  thought  of 
Edmond  and  wondered  what  had  happened  to  him.  There 
was  something  rather  shabby  about  Masters,  thought  Mor- 
timer suddenly — an  indeterminate  element  of  smallness  in 
the  way  he  was  playing  for  Renee.  His  attention  wandered 
to  the  two  men  at  his  side.  They  were  talking  of  horses 
and  odds.  Maxie  had  won  heavily  at  Longchamps ;  Fulson 
had  lost.  Their  talk,  half  intelligible  only,  was  base,  or 
seemed  so  then  to  Mortimer,  till  he  caught  himself  up  sud- 
denly and  decided  he  was  becoming  morose. 

He  had  almost  made  up  his  mind  to  leave  when  Mado 
came  in  and  looked  swiftly  round. 

"Have  you  seen  Ezra,  Monsieur  Mortimer?"  she  asked, 
shaking  his  hand  nervously. 

"No." 

She  sat  down,  looking  grim,  and  Mortimer  caught  her  ex- 
changing significant  looks  with  Carmen,  He  saw  Carmen 
making  a  grimace  at  her,  as  if  to  bid  her  be  silent. 

"You  are  sure  you  don't  know  where  Ezra  is?" 

"Of  course  I'm  sure,"  he  answered,  annoyed. 

Mado  frowned  and  tightened  her  lips,  then  suddenly  she 
turned  to  Mortimer. 

"Is  it  true  that  you  and  Ezra  were  with  two  girls  on 
Saturday  night?" 

Mortimer  started  at  this  frontal  attack;  he  glanced  at 
Carmen,  who  had  turned  away  her  face  with  a  look  of  in- 


THE  OUTSIDER  149 

describable  depression.    He  decided  to  make  no  answer.    In 
stead  he  looked  away  in  front  of  him. 

"You  were  both  seen  on  Saturday  night,"  said  Mado 
firmly,  "And  I  want  to  know  where  Ezra  is." 

"I  don't  know  where  Ezra  is,"  said  Mortimer,  and  his 
mouth  felt  dry.  Carmen's  silent  distress  wes  very  hard  to 
bear. 

"I  want  to  know  who  that  girl  is,"  said  Mado,  with  sud- 
den ferocity.  "  If  I  find  her  I  will  tear  her  eyes  out. ' ' 

"Mado,  don't  make  a  scene  in  here,"  said  Mortimer, 
setting  his  teeth.  "Your  damned  Ezra  will  probably  be 
in  later  this  evening." 

"If  he  is  not,"  cried  Mado,  "I'll  hang  round  till  I  find 
him." 

"Hang  round,"  said  Mortimer,  curtly.  "I'm  going. 
Come  along,  Carmen. ' ' 

He  went  out,  leaving  Mado  sitting  at  their  table,  her 
arms  tightly  folded.  Mortimer  found  himself  apologising 
mentally  to  Carmen — and  then,  realising  this,  he  was  furi- 
ous— and  then  he  laughed  at  himself,  for  Carmen  had  not 
said  a  word  of  reproach.  She  only  walked  along  and  kept 
her  eyes  on  the  ground. 

The  evening  air  was  still  but  raw.  A  fine,  rasping 
mist  hung  over  the  streets  and  damped  the  walls  and  pave- 
ments. Wordless  they  walked  up  towards  the  Avenue  Mon- 
taigne. He  coughed  two  or  three  times,  and  at  each  cough, 
as  Carmen's  arm  held  him  closer,  he  felt  a  strange  grati- 
tude to  this  friendly  little  girl. 

"Tell  me,  Carmen,"  he  asked  curiously,  "am  I  like  those 
other  fellows  there  in  the  Lapin  Cuit?" 

"Like  who,  Mortimer?"    She  was  glad  to  talk. 

"Like  Fulson,  or  Masters,  or  old  Cray,  or  Gorman!" 

"My  God,  no,  mon  petit." 

"How  am  I  different f" 


150  THE  OUTSIDER 

"I  don't  know,  mon  petit,  but  you  are  not  like  them." 

"I  wonder  whether  I'm  not,  and  why  I  don't  want  to  be." 

"Mortimer." 

"What  is  it?" 

"You  are  coughing." 

"No,  no." 

"Yes,  mon  petit.    You  will  become  ill." 

"What  will  that  matter  to  you?" 

She  stopped  and  looked  at  him.  "You  are  unkind,"  she 
whispered,  and  held  his  arm  tight,  and  then,  before  he  knew 
it,  she  had  leaned  against  him  and  was  sobbing.  They  were 
standing  under  some  trees  at  the  corner  of  the  Avenue 
Marigny.  Fortunately,  few  people  were  passing,  but  Mor- 
timer was  amazed  as  well  as  embarrassed. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  little  Carmen?"  He  tried 
to  lift  her  head,  to  look  at  her,  but  she  held  close  to  him  and 
sobbed  violently.  He  waited  miserably  until  she  had  calmed 
herself. 

' '  Oh,  you  will  be  angry  with  me  again,  Mortimer,  because 
I  am  crying." 

"No,  no,"  he  said,  conscious  of  a  horrible  brutality. 
"But  what  is  the  matter  with  you?" 

"You  do  not  love  me — and  you  do  not  want  me  to  love 
you." 

"That  is  not  true,  Carmen" — his  denial  was  not  alto- 
gether a  lie,  after  all. 

"Do  you  love  me  a  little?" 

"Of  course." 

"And  you  are  not  angry  if  I  love  you?" 

"No,  no." 

Now  she  let  him  lift  up  her  face,  and  under  the  tears  it 
was  suddenly  radiant  again. 

"Is  that  true,  Mortimer?" 


THE  OUTSIDER  151 

"Of  course  it's  true,"  he  said,  unable  to  suppress  a  smile 
of  pleasure  at  her  happiness. 

"You  know,"  she  said,  "old  Cray  said  that  you  and  Ezra 
were  with  two  girls  on  Saturday  night — all  drunk.  It 
isn  't  true,  is  it  ?  " 

' '  No, ' '  he  said,  stonily. 

"I  knew  it  wasn't,"  she  said,  triumphantly,  "Mado  be- 
lieves it,  but  she  is  a  fool.  I  knew  if  I  asked  you  would  say 
no.  Cray  doesn't  like  you." 

"Why  doesn't  he  like  me?" 

"He  said  yesterday — I  don't  know  what  he  said — to 
Maxie — but  he  doesn't  like  you." 

"Oh."  Mortimer  felt  a  foolish  anger  rising  in  him 
against  the  old  drunkard. 

"But  you  don't  care?" 

"Of  course  not." 

"Yesterday  I  would  have  said  something  to  him,"  she 
chattered  on,  "but  I  don't  speak  English  well  enough.  I 
would  have  asked  him  why  he  doesn't  stop  drinking  and 
earn  money  for  his  wife — although  she  isn't  gentitte  at 
all.  She  doesn't  like  us  French  girls — she  doesn't  like  me 
— I  don't  know  why.  But  I'm  a  good  girl,  I  think." 

"You  are,  Carmen." 

"N'est  ce  pas?  I'm  not  like  Jeanne.  I  think  her  baby 's 
going  to  die.  She  doesn't  look  after  it — she  lets  it  go 
hungry  and  dirty  and  everybody  handles  it.  It 's  a  shame. 
Everybody's  talking  about  it.  If  I  had  a  baby  .  .  ." 

"Why  doesn't  she  give  it  to  an  institute  or  something?" 

"She's  going  to,  I  think.  I  scolded  her  more  than  once. 
I  told  her  everybody 's  talking  about  it.  She  isn 't  the  proper 
kind  of  person  to  have  a  baby. ' ' 

"Talk  about  something  else,  Carmen,"  said  Mortimer, 
laughing  and  passing  his  arm  round  her. 


152  THE  OUTSIDER 

"What  shall  I  talk  about  then?"  she  said,  turning  up  to 
him  her  shining  face. 

"Anything  but  that." 

"I  think  Masters  is  going  to  take  away  Renee;  I  saw 
Edmond  outside  the  Lapin  Cuit  this  evening  as  we  came 
away.  He  was  waiting.  I'm  sure  he'll  do  something  to 
Monsieur  Masters.  Did  you  see  him  ? ' ' 

"No,  talk  about  something  else  still,"  said  Mortimer, 
laughing  again.  "You're  a  regular  little  gossip."  The 
chill  air  tickled  his  lungs  deep  down  and  he  coughed  several 
times.  Carmen  stopped  walking,  and  looked  at  him  anx- 
iously. 

"Mortimer,  you  are  coughing  again."  The  pain  in  her 
voice  was  genuine.  "Mon  petit,  you  musn't  cough." 

"What  shall  I  do  then?" 

* '  You  must  go  in.    You  musn  't  be  outside. ' ' 

"Then  we'll  go  back." 

"Mortimer — "  timidly  again. 

"Yes?" 

"You  have  no  one — nothing        .         .         ." 

"No  one  what?" 

She  sighed  profoundly.  "Ah,  cheri,  you  understand 
me  badly  if  I  say  this.  You  need  to  be  looked  after. ' ' 

He  wanted  to  protest  with  the  same  vigor  that  he  had 
shown  the  other  evening,  but  a  complication  of  feelings 
stopped  him.  He  had  already  wronged  her,  he  had  already 
told  her  a  rank  lie.  Was  it  well  to  force  his  indignation 
now  ?  For  he  did  not  feel  indignant — the  lie  had  given  her 
a  subtle  claim  to  be  considered  otherwise  than  he  had  at 
first  intended. 

"Mortimer,  mon  petit,"  she  said,  softly,  "I  do  love  you, 
and  I  think  you  are  worried  and  should  be  look  after.  But 
if  I  say  I  want  to  do  it,  you  must  not  think  I  say  so  be- 


THE  OUTSIDER  153 

cause — ".  Her  distress  was  so  acute,  that  he  stopped 
her  roughly. 

"No,  no,  never — I  don't  believe  that,  little  Carmen,"  he 
said,  almost  violently.  "I  do  believe,  sincerely,  that  you  are 
a  good  little  girl — but  we  mustn't  talk  of  that." 

His  way  of  saying  it — so  different  from,  the  first  un- 
approachable rebuttal — contented  her  then.  She  looked 
radiant — and  his  heart  warmed  irresistibly  to  see  her  hap- 
piness. "What  a  poor  thing  he  must  be  after  all,  to  play 
with  this  helpless  child. 

"Good  little  girl,  good  little  girl,"  he  repeated,  then 
suddenly  he  stopped  in  his  walk — they  were  in  the  quiet 
shadow  of  trees  along  the  Avenue  Gabrielle — put  his  arms 
round  her,  and  kissed  her.  She  clung  to  him,  trembling 
from  head  to  foot.  "Oh  je  t'aime,  je  t'aime,"  she  whis- 
pered, * '  I  love  you,  I  love  you,  forever  and  ever. ' ' 

The  fierceness  of  her  emotion  awoke  in  him  an  answer 
so  akin  to  original  love  that  he  was  almost  deceived.  But 
as  they  resumed  their  walk,  their  arms  around  each  other, 
prudence  returned  again  to  him,  chilly,  reproachful.  What 
troubles  was  he  laying  up  for  himself  with  this  little  girl  ? 
Were  it  not  better,  since  she  was  not  as  he  had  believed  at 
first,  to  go  no  further?  Every  moment  of  their  walk  in- 
volved him  deeply  and  more  deeply.  This  was  not  the 
Carmen  he  had  thought  to  find — indeed,  the  suspicion  oc- 
curred to  him  that  he  was  finding  little  of  what  he  had 
thought  to  find.  But  he  could  not  stop  just  then  to  measure 
and  appraise  the  life  he  was  drifting  into — for  she,  the  girl, 
exercised  his  mind  too  keenly.  And  yet  he  liked  her,  pro- 
foundly. "But,"  he  said  to  himself,  with  some  contempt, 
"if  I'm  not  prepared  to  pay  her  price — I  must  forego  this 
happiness."  But  in  the  end,  as  always,  he  wearied  of  his 
reasoning  and  of  himself,  and  abandoned  himself  to  her. 

"Eh  bien,"  he  asked,  shaking  her,  "are  you  happy?" 


154  THE  OUTSIDER 

"Happy?"  she  answered,  radiant. 

"Very  well,  tell  me  something  else." 

They  were  at  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  by  then.  Carmen 
looked  at  him  and,  with  a  ludicrous  assumption  of  indiffer- 
ence turned  with  him  to  the  right,  to  cross  the  river. 

"Where  are  we  going,  Carmen?" 

"Oh,  so,  walking," — this  with  a  naive  ingenuousness  that 
was  irresistible.  Carmen  lived  on  the  "left  bank" — Mor- 
timer called  it  Brooklyn — somewhere  near  the  ficole  Mil- 
itaire ;  they  were  heading  thither. 

"Oh,  are  we  going  to  cross  the  river?"  asked  Mortimer, 
affecting  stupidity. 

"Oui,  mon  petit,"  she  answered,  trembling  lest  he  dis- 
cover the  ruse  too  soon.  He  had  not  the  heart  to  tell  her 
how  transparent  she  was.  She  was  near  to  crowing  audibly 
at  the  success  of  her  stratagem.  Of  course,  once  they  were 
close  to  her  home  it  would  be  so  much  easier  to  ask  him  in. 
She  began  to  talk  hurriedly  as  they  touched  the  bridge. 

"We  have  lots  of  work  in  the  atelier,"  she  said.  "Last 
week  I  earned  seventy-eight  francs,  and  this  week  I  shall 
earn  more.  Monsieur  Blumer  said  that  if  I  make  these 
heads  so  well  I  might  become  contremaitre.  You  know,  I 
might  even  earn  as  much  as  four  hundred  francs  a  month 
then." 

"That  would  be  a  lot,  ah?" 

"I  should  think  so.  I  would  be  a  princess.  Monsieur 
Blumer  says  that  nobody  in  the  atelier  makes  the  heads  as 
well  as  I  do.  It  would  be  wonderful  to  earn  four  hundred 
francs  a  month.  I  don 't  need  it,  at  all. ' ' 

"What  would  you  do  with  the  rest?"  he  asked,  enviously. 

"Aha!  Aha!  I  know,  but  I  won't  tell  you,"— but  of 
course  her  face  told  it.  "You  know,"  she  continued,  "if 
I  worked  fast  enough  even  as  a  worker" — they  were  pass- 
ing by  the  Ministry  for  Foreign  Affairs,  and  Carmen's  joy 


THE  OUTSIDER  155 

and  nervousness  were  increasing — ' '  if  I  worked  fast  enough 
as  a  worker  I  could  also  earn  four  hundred  francs  a  month 
— but  nobody  in  the  world  could  work  so  fast,  your  fingers 
get  tied  up  and  your  hands  would  bleed.  You  can't  push 
the  needle  fast  enough  through  the  stuffing.  Oh,  but  I 
often  dream  of  earning  four  hundred  francs  a  month — and 
then  I  make  calculations." 

"You  poor  little  devil,"  said  Mortimer,  in  English,  half 
angry  with  himself  for  no  fathomable  reason. 

"But  sometimes,"  she  continued,  "I  imagine  that  I've 
got  the  money  in  some  other  way.  In  the  atelier  they  pay 
you  six  francs  a  dozen  heads  of  teddy  bears.  If  you  are 
very  fast  you  can  make  them  in  six  hours,  in  the  morning, 
but  in  the  afternoon  it  takes  longer.  Oh,  if  I  could  only 
make  them  in  five  hours.  I  start  so  fast  at  half-past  seven, 
and  I  say,  at  twelve  o'clock  I  will  have  the  tenth  finished 
and  the  eleventh  begun — and  always  I  hope  it  will  be  so,  and 
it  never  is.  Always  at  twelve  o  'clock  I  have  only  nine  done ; 
just  nine,  and  every  time  I  think  I  was  going  faster  than 
last  time.  C'est  navrant."  She  sighed  a  broken  and  half 
happy  sigh,  for  after  all,  it  was  to  Mortimer  that  she  was 
telling  all  this. 

They  were  half  way  down  the  Esplanade  des  Invalides. 
Carmen  fell  into  a  restless  silence — she  was  too  excited  to 
speak — for  surely  Mortimer  must  know  that  he  was  walking 
homewards  with  her.  Or  perhaps  he  didn  't  .  .  .  but  if 
he  did,  and  was  saying  nothing  ?  At  last  Mortimer,  almost 
tortured  by  the  struggle  in  her  mind,  asked  suddenly. 

"Where  are  we  going,  Carmen?" 

"To  my  home,"  she  answered  tremulously — "Mortimer, 
you  have  never  been  there.  You  know,  I  haven't  as  nice 
a  room  as  yours,  but  I  want  you  to  see  it,  n'est-ce  pas?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  said,  "I  would  like  to  see  it." 

"Oh,  you  are  gentil,"  she  said,  almost  inaudibly. 


156  THE  OUTSIDER 

At  the  corner  of  the  Invalides,  where  the  Avenue  de  la 
Motte-Picquet  begins,  they  came  just  then  upon  a  withered 
woman  raking  a  garbage  can.  They  were  about  to  pass 
when  Mortimer  stopped  suddenly.  The  old  woman  straight- 
ened up,  frightened,  and  backed  away  from  the  can,  her 
eyes  fixed  on  Mortimer,  whose  face,  unbeknown  to  himself, 
had  taken  on  a  terrible  grimness. 

"I'm  doing  nothing,"  she  piped  at  him,  dusting  her 
hands.  ' '  I  'm  a  ragpicker. ' ' 

Mortimer  was  rummaging  in  his  pocket  for  silver,  but 
the  expression  on  his  face  did  not  change.  It  occurred  to 
him  at  that  moment  that  this  old  woman  would  probably  be 
unable  to  make  even  three  bear's  heads  in  one  day — and  if 
Carmen  lived  long  enough  a  time  would  come  when  she 
would  be  as  helpless.  Would  she  then  look  like  this  horrible 
old  thing,  with  her  narrow,  sunken  eyes,  almost  hidden  by 
wrinkled  skin,  with  her  big  nose  and  the  slit  of  a  mouth  that 
receded  into  the  skinny  throat?  Why  not? 

The  old  woman  made  motions  with  her  lips  as  she  watched 
Mortimer ;  her  eyes  moved  from  his  face  to  his  arm,  and  her 
head  followed  her  eyes  with  the  jerky  motions  of  an  ancient 
bird.  Mortimer  pulled  out  his  hand  and  saw  in  it  a  two 
franc  piece  that  flashed  violet  in  the  electric  light.  He 
tendered  it  to  the  woman,  and  would  have  passed  on,  but 
she  seized  his  hand  as  she  took  the  coin,  and  before  he  knew 
it  she  had  kissed  his  hand  with  a  grateful  croak. 

He  jerked  his  hand  away  with  a  cry  of  loathing.  "For 
God's  sake!"  The  violence  of  his  act  almost  threw  the  old 
woman  down — but  he  walked  on  hastily,  shuddering,  Car- 
men at  his  side. 

* '  What  a  horrible  old  woman, ' '  he  said,  vehemently,  and 
to  his  astonishment  Carmen  burst  into  genuine,  hearty 
laughter. 


THE  OUTSIDER  157 

"Oh,  how  crazy  you  are,  Mortimer!  She  thought  you 
were  going  to  beat  her. ' ' 

"But  isn't  she  horrible?"  he  asked. 

"What  do  you  want?  Dis-donc,  you  don't  expect  the 
wife  of  a  grand  seigneur  to  be  picking  rags?  It's  a  rag- 
picker, like  any  other." 

"Doesn't  it  mean  anything  to  you,  Carmen,  to  see  that 
old  woman?" — he  said  this  and  then,  ashamed,  hoped  that 
she  had  not  understood,  but  she  caught  him  up  quickly. 

"What  do  you  want?"  she  answered,  smiling.  "If  I 
should  be  like  that  some  day,  well,  there  are  others.  Mado 
would  also  be  like  that,  and  Renee,  and  Jeanne.  You  don 't 
think  we're  going  to  marry  anyone,  do  you?" 

There  was  no  answer  to  make  to  this. 

"I  should  worry,"  she  added.  "Besides,  I  believe  that 
some  of  the  ragpickers  earn  quite  a  lot  of  money.  It  isn't 
an  elegant  trade,  but  if  you  can  eat  and  sleep  somewhere, 
well,  that's  good  enough." 

"Possibly  I'm  too  fastidious,"  agreed  Mortimer.  "Are 
we  near  your  house  ? ' ' 

"Quite  near." 

They  turned  off  the  respectable  Avenue  into  a  narrow, 
dingy  street,  with  crooked  pavement  edgings  and  then 
turned  again  into  an  alley.  A  lamp  at  the  corner  showed 
Mortimer  a  paved  street,  formed  by  two  rows  of  old  build- 
ings. Iron  railings  were  evidence  of  gardens  that  had  once 
existed — and  the  skinny  remnants  of  trees  that  recalled  the 
ragpicker  stood  sparsely  behind  the  railings.  On  the  wall 
by  every  small  door  was  a  plate — "Hotel  de  Calais, n 
"Hotel  de  Lyons,  Chambres  Meublees."  The  street  was 
ineffably  dismal.  Some  of  the  windows  were  boarded  up 
— and  through  the  blinds  of  others  feeble  rays  of  light  lit 
up  the  mist  and  were  choked  back  by  it. 

They  went  in  by  a  leaning  gate  to  one  of  the  small  doors. 


158  THE  OUTSIDER 

"It  isn't  very  chic,"  said  Carmen,  nervously,  "but  the 
room  isn't  so  bad." 

The  narrow  lobby  ran  through  into  a  courtyard.  Before 
the  courtyard  and  under  the  stairs  was  the  window  of  the 
concierge.  Carmen  opened  the  door,  looked  in,  and  beck- 
oned Mortimer  in. 

"I'm  going  to  introduce  you  to  the  patronne.  She  knows 
about  you,  and  she 's  very  kind  to  me ;  Madame  Lebihan ! ' ' 

A  plump  woman  came  out  from  a  room  buried  in  a 
corner. 

"Tiens,  Carmen,"  she  said,  joyously.  "That  is  your 
friend  Mortimer.  Enchanted  to  make  your  acquaintance, 
Monsieur." 

In  the  light  of  the  petroleum  lamp  the  room  was  cosy. 
"We  are  not  rich  here,"  said  the  patronne  to  Mortimer,  as 
he  looked  round,  "but  we  are  not  so  badly  fixed."  She 
seemed  to  be  examining  him  with  pleasure. 

4 '  Very  well  fixed, ' '  said  Mortimer,  uncomfortably.  What 
on  earth  was  Carmen  showing  him  off  for? 

"Of  course,  we  are  not  swells,  like  you  others,"  said  the 
lady  pleasantly. 

"Oh,  we're  no  swells,  either,  not  at  all,"  said  Mortimer, 
foolishly. 

"Won't  you  take  a  seat?" 

' '  Thank  you. ' '  He  plumped  into  a  chair.  Carmen  stand- 
ing over  him  was  smiling  at  the  patronne  with  an  air  of 
gratification.  Mortimer  felt  foolish.  This  was  taking  on 
the  aspect  of  a  formal  visit  and  introduction  to  "her  folks. " 
Carmen  must  have  been  singing  his  praises  and  the  praises 
of  his  station  to  the  patronne. 

"Won't  you  have  a  cup  of  coffee,  Monsieur f" 

"Hate  to  trouble  you,"  said  Mortimer. 

"No  trouble  at  all." 


THE  OUTSIDER  159 

"Thanks,  I'd  rather  not,  just  now,"  he  blurted,  with  an 
effort. 

"You  mustn't  be  shy,  Mortimer,"  said  Carmen. 

"I'm  not  shy,"  he  answered  agressively. 

"Madame  Lebihan  is  like  a  real  mother  to  me,"  said  Car- 
men. 

"Yes,  so  you  can  be  quite  at  home  nere,"  said  the  pa- 
ironne. 

In  the  mind  of  Mortimer  a  silly  conviction  arose  and  in- 
creased that  this  was  a  kind  of  game  and  these  two  women 
were  victimizing  him;  they  were  playing  at  being  nice, 
conventional  people,  and  this  was  a  visitor  in  the  parlor; 
and  how  they  were  enjoying  themselves. 

"No  thank  you,  really.  I  don't  want  a  cup  of  coffee,"  he 
insisted,  knowing  by  now  that  he  was  going  to  drink  one. 
He  might  as  well  be  visiting  Mabel  Ross 's  folks  back  home. 
He  only  waited  now  for  the  conversation  to  turn  on  the 
weather  that  the  picture  might  complete  itself.  He  was  not 
disappointed.  He  sat  with  a  cup  of  coffee  in  his  lap  and  for 
ten  minutes  agreed  or  demurred  (the  disagreement  tem- 
pered, of  course,  by  a  mild  astonishment)  with  suggestions 
on  weather  and  health.  These  changes  in  the  weather  do 
so  encourage  the  grippe,  but  one's  throat  should  be  muffled 
against  these  mists,  as  mere  changes  in  the  temperature  also 
cause  colds — don't  you  think  so? 

He  waited  painfully  for  a  sign  from  Carmen — and  was 
heartily  glad  to  go. 

"One  will  see  you  a  little  more  often  now,  n'est-ce  pas?" 
said  the  patronne.  He  was  reminded  again  of  Mrs.  Ross, 
who  used  to  stand  on  the  porch  and  bleat  after  him  "Call 
again,  Mr.  Long ! ' '  This  lady  did  look  rather  like  Mrs.  Ross. 

"I  shall  be  delighted" — which  was  his  regulation  answer 
in  these  circumstances — and  he  made  the  foolish  vow  never 
to  call  on  the  patronne  again. 


160  THE  OUTSIDER 

Carmen's  room  was  on  the  first  floor  back.  There  was  no 
landing  between  the  narrow  stairs  and  the  door  of  the  room ; 
the  last  step  led  half  into  her  room  and  half  into  a  pent 
lobby.  Carmen  went  before  and  unlocked  the  door. 

"I  must  light  the  lamp,"  she  said.    "Wait  a  moment." 

"He  could  see  nothing  at  first;  then  he  struck  a  match 
and  saw  that  he  was  in  a  tiny  ante-room.  Carmen  was  in 
the  next  room.  She  lit  the  oil  lamp  on  the  little  table  by 
the  bed  and  turned  round,  smiling  shyly.  "Here's  my 
home." 

The  ante-room  contained  a  wash-stand  with  a  tin  water, 
jug  and  a  tin  bowl.  The  bareness  of  the  place  was  inex- 
pressibly painful.  The  floor  was  of  stone — big,  uncovered 
flags,  and  the  walls  were  varnished  an  unhappy  green.  But 
the  bedroom  was  better.  The  bed  looked  comfortable.  There 
was  linoleum  on  the  floor,  and,  for  furniture,  a  table  de  nuit, 
two  chairs  and  an  unpolished  wardrobe.  On  the  wall 
against  the  foot  of  the  bed  there  was  a  shelf,  just  within 
reach ;  from  the  edge  of  the  shelf  hung  a  curtain,  and  that, 
Mortimer  guessed,  served  to  cover  clothes  on  pegs  driven 
into  the  wall.  On  the  shelf  was  an  old  hat  and  two  or  three 
cardboard  boxes. 

On  the  mantelpiece  were  two  crude  china  shepherdesses, 
a  model  of  the  Eiffel  Tower,  two  cigar  boxes  (American) 
and  a  candle-end.  Over  the  mantelpiece  were  countless 
picture  post  cards — and  in  the  very  centre  of  them  Morti- 
mer was  astonished  to  see  a  photograph  of  himself — one  that 
had  not  come  to  his  attention  in  many  weeks.  Carmen 
saw  the  astonishment  on  his  face  and  laid  her  hand  on  his 
arm. 

"I  stole  it  from  your  room,"  she  confessed — "dnce  I 
asked  you  for  a  photograph  and  you  wouldn't  give  me 
one." 

"Quite  the  proper  thing  when  a  thing  is  refused  you," 


THE  OUTSIDER  161 

agreed  Mortimer.  "But  I  wish  you'd  put  me  in  the  com- 
pany of  less  handsome  celebrities. ' ' 

' '  Then  you  're  not  angry  ? ' ' 

"No."  He  was  delighted  with  the  neatness  of  the  room; 
whatever  her  efforts  could  improve  had  suffered  no  neglect. 
There  was  no  dust  on  the  boxes  on  the  shelf.  The  linoleum 
was  brown  with  wear,  but  clean ;  the  lamp-glass  was  speck- 
less. 

' '  It  isn  't  like  your  room,  is  it,  Mortimer  ? ' ' 

"It's  a  nice  room,"  he  said,  "and  you  keep  it  splen- 
didly." 

' '  Aha, ' '  she  exclaimed.    ' '  Don 't  I  ? " 

He  envied  something  in  this  close-calculated  poverty; 
surely  Carmen  could  never  have  any  heartburnings  for 
money  foolishly  spent — she  never  spent  any  foolishly,  and 
surely  she  knew  to  a  fifty  centime  piece  what  she  needed 
for  the  month. 

"You're  a  funny  little  bird,  Carmen." 

"You  didn't  think  I  kept  my  place  so  neat,  did  you?" 

' '  I  guess  you  're  proud  of  yourself  as  a  housekeeper  ? ' ' 

"I  should  think  I  am.    Oh,  I  could  keep  a  house " 

"We  men  are  rather  stupid —  "  he  said,  shaking  his  head, 
but  he  did  not  explain  that  he  was  referring  to  his  own 
stupidity  in  having  understood  so  little  of  her.  "I  think 
you'd  enjoy  looking  after  someone?  I  do  like  your  room." 

"Look  here — "  she  stood  upon  one  of  the  chairs,  and  took 
down  from  the  shelf  a  cardboard  box.  "Guess  what  I  have 
in  here?" 

"Can't  guess." 

"Work.  Bear's  heads.  And  I  keep  my  tools  in  that 
cigar  box  there.  On  evenings  when  you  won 't  see  me,  I  do 
overtime  work." 

"Then  the  less  I  see  you  the  more  money  you  earn?" 


162  THE  OUTSIDER 

"You  always  find  a  wicked  thing  to  say,"  she  said,  dis- 
tressed. 

"But  you'd  rather  spend  all  your  time  with  me,"  he  con- 
ceded, "even  if  you  don't  earn  anything  at  all." 

"Why,  sure." 

He  was  smiling  all  the  time,  and  continuously  staring 
round  the  room.  There  was  something  genuinely  pleasant 
in  its  simplicity,  even  in  its  poverty.  Carmen  was  gleeful. 

"  I  'm  not  like  the  other  girls,  am  I  ? "  she  asked  naively. 

"Am  I  supposed  to  know?"  asked  Mortimer. 

"Well,  I'm  not  like  Mado,  or  Jeanne.  Their  rooms  are 
always  horrid.  They're  not  clean." 

"You're  rather  fond  of  a  little  gossip  now  and  again, 
eh,  Carmen?  You  seem  to  have  all  the  qualities  of  respec- 
tability." 

"I'm  really  telling  the  truth;  but  Mado  is  a  good  girl. 
She  is  generous,  but  I  don't  think  she  looks  after  Monsieur 
Ezra  at  all." 

Mortimer  was  slightly  impatient. 

"But  Ezra  doesn't  want  to  be  looked  after,  neither  do  I. 
We  're  not  looking  for  nurses.  Don 't  you  understand  me  ? " 

She  shook  her  head  with  a  peculiar  smile. 

"I'm  not  like  that.  If  I  were  Mado  .  .  .  But  it 
doesn't  matter.  You  couldn't  live  in  a  place  like  this,  eh, 
Mortimer?" 

The  last  sentence  contained  nothing  bitter,  but  it  stung 
Mortimer. 

"Rubbish,"  he  answered,  decisively,  then  added  cau- 
tiously, "that  isn't  the  reason  at  all." 

"Well  then,"  she  said  with  a  resignation  that  was  bitter, 
"I  understand.  I  know  I  don't  come  from  the  same  kind 
of  world  as  you  do.  You  think  me  not  quite — perhaps  you 
are  right.  You  think  I  shall  take  hold  of  you  and  stick  to 


THE  OUTSIDER  163 

you  and  stick  to  you  and  never  let  go.    But  I'm  not  like 
that,  either." 

"Poor  little  Carmen,"  he  said,  putting  his  arms  round 
her,  "How  obstinate  you  are." 

"But  you  are  afraid  of  that,  n'est-ce  pas?" 

* '  Listen. ' '  He  stroked  her  hair.  "  You  know,  don 't  you , 
that  a  time  will  come,  tomorrow,  a  month  from  now,  six 
months  from  now,  when  we  shall  have  to  leave  each  other." 

' '  I  know  it, ' '  she  said,  miserably. 

"Don't  look  unhappy.  It  is  probable  that  you  will  leave 
me  before  I  leave  you. ' ' 

"It  is  probable,"  she  repeated,  incredulously. 

"And  then,  and  then — "  he  had  lost  the  thread  if  his 
thought,  or  had  never  had  one.  "In  any  case,"  he  began 
again,  * '  I  must  live  alone,  I  must — I  am  that  kind  of  man. ' ' 

"You  mean  I  am  that  kind  of  woman." 

He  was  startled  by  the  quickness  and  pointedness  of  her 
retort.  He  reflected  that  under  the  impulse  of  love  and  in 
the  struggle  for  her  primitive  privileges,  the  simplest  wo- 
man could  become  sharp  and  swift-minded.  She  repeated, 
"you  mean  I  am  that  kind  of  woman" — this  time  more  to 
herself,  unhappy  to  have  found  this  thought. 

"It  isn't  true,"  he  said,  sincerely.  But  somehow  she  was 
changing  in  his  eyes  as  she  fought ;  there  was  emerging  a 
vigor  and  tenacity  he  had  not  suspected ;  and  a  new  respect 
for  her  personality  was  born  with  this; — or  else  she  was 
merely  wearing  him  down. 

"Do  not  be  afraid,"  she  said,  guessing  at  the  greatest 
obstacle.  "When  you  will  no  longer  want  me,  I  shall  go." 

He  rose  suddenly.    "Carmen  ,  enough  of  this  subject"- 
and  tempered  this  weakly  when  he  saw  the  hopelessness  that 
darkened  her  face.    * '  Just  now.    Some  other  day  we  '11  talk. " 

"Yes,  yes,  Mortimer — don't  go.  I  promise  not  to  speak 
of  this  again  tonight." 


164  THE  OUTSIDER 

He  sat  down  again. 

"Look  here;  be  a  good  little  girl  and  do  some  -work,  eh? 
And  I'll  sit  here  and  read."  He  generally  carried  in  his 
pocket  some  tiny  edition  of  a  French  classic.  This  time  it 
was  a  book  of  excerpts  from  the  "Thoughts  of  Pascal." 
Talking  with  Carmen  was  a  strain,  and  he  wanted  a  rest. 

She  opened  the  cardboard  box  and  put  it  on  the  table, 
and  brought  over  the  lamp.  Then  she  opened  one  of  the 
cigar-boxes  and  took  out  a  ball  of  thick  black  cotton,  a  bod- 
kin, two  large  needles  and  a  handful  of  what  looked  like  col- 
ored beads  with  tiny  ringlets.  Mortimer  settled  himself  com- 
fortably with  the  tiny  book  under  the  lamplight.  He  did 
not  read  at  first,  but  watched  the  girl,  and  dwelt  on  the  seri- 
ous, happy  face,  the  crude  yet  nimble  fingers,  the  small, 
graceful  body,  and  the  head  with  its  mass  of  brown  hair 
bent  against  the  lamplight.  She  was  making  a  deliberate 
effort  to  take  her  attention  away  from  him,  only  for  his  sat- 
isfaction; she  was  trying  to  absorb  herself  in  the  work. 
The  attempt  was  too  eager  to  succeed,  but  Mortimer  was 
touched  by  her  will.  He  was  grateful  as  he  watched  the 
fingers  working  steadily  on.  First  she  took  from  the  card- 
board box  a  white  bear's  head-shape  made  in  a  kind  of 
papier  mache  and  covered  with  cheap  white  fur.  She  pierced 
this  deftly  in  several  directions,  beginning  with  the  eye- 
holes ;  then  she  strung  the  eyes  on  and  drew  them  tight  into 
the  holes.  This  was  the  difficult  work,  for  the  papier  mache 
was  irregularly  consistent ;  at  times  the  bodkin  would  stick 
obstinately,  had  to  be  pulled  out  and  tried  again.  After  the 
eyes  came  the  snout,  which  was  sewn  on  in  thick  black  cot- 
ton, as  if  drawn  in  black  paint ;  and  then  the  outline  of  the 
jaws,  a  triangle  in  black  cotton. 

It  was  fascinating  to  watch  the  fingers  dance  as  they 
turned  the  head  right  and  left,  backward  and  forward.  The 
big  needle  flashed  to  and  fro  in  the  yellow  lamplight.  All 


THE  OUTSIDER  165 

was  dexterous  movement,  graceful,  effective.  And  above 
brooded  the  immobile  face,  the  large,  dreamy,  brown  eyes 
and  the  mass  of  hair.  For  in  the  end  she  did  forget  her- 
self in  the  work,  and  her  consciousness  of  him,  though  it 
made  her  happy,  was  automatic  and  subdued.  How  com- 
pact and  self-contained  she  was,  how  simple  and  how  val- 
iant !  Was  there  nobody  who  would  take  up  this  little  life 
and  give  it  full  play  ? 

How  quiet  it  was!  How  steadily  and  contentedly  she 
worked !  How  certain  he  was  that,  though  she  was  just  then 
half -forgetful  of  him,  her  sweetness  and  content  were  drawn 
from  him. 

He  stretched  his  hand  out  across  the  table. 

"Dear  little  Carmen,  good  little  Carmen." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

WEDNESDAY  afternoon  and  evening  met  in  a  grey,  windy 
monotony.  Occasional  starts  of  rain  drummed  lightly  on 
the  window  and  dimness  and  darkness  alternated  irregularly 
on  the  street  until  the  lamps  were  lit.  For  the  first  time 
since  his  demobilisation  Mortimer  was  profoundly  and  con- 
tinuously depressed.  Part  of  the  day  he  had  worked  on 
the  Lessar  manuscript  and  the  rest  of  the  time  he  had  spent 
in  reading  and  taking  notes.  The  fire  had  burned  all  day 
in  the  grate;  he  had  ventured  out  only  once,  for  lunch; 
the  skies  and  his  mood  had  driven  him  back.  Towards 
evening  the  very  cosiness  of  the  room  was  unwelcome  to 
him.  The  hours  were  too  long  and  he  was  oppressed  by  a 
sense  of  insufficiency  in  his  life.  But  from  time  to  time  he 
told  himself  that  whatever  his  life  was,  and  wherever  he 
carried  it,  he  would  never  shake  himself  free  of  these  oc- 
casional, futile  melancholies.  At  seven  he  ate  at  the  "Hole." 
He  had  not  seen  Ezra  for  three  days,  and  he  confessed  to 
himself  that  he  missed  him.  It  was  a  tacit  but  firm  rule  of 
theirs  that  when  one  of  them  kept  away  for  a  time  the  other 
should  not  go  in  search  of  him.  This  evening  Mortimer 
would  have  been  glad  to  meet  Ezra  at  the  "Hole," 
but  he  waited  there  till  half  past  seven  in  vain.  At  that 
hour  he  started  out  through  a  chilly  wind  for  the  rue  Joseph 
Dijon,  knowing  that  Ezra  would  be  there  at  the  rendezvous 
with  Pernande  and  Gaby.  He  was  going  to  the  rendezvous 
with  some  reluctance.  There  was  something  indefinable  in 
his  mind,  as  though  he  had  just  left  home  to  meet  a  girl 
after  telling  them  at  home  that  he  was  going  down  to  the 
Elks.  He  was  irritated  with  himself  at  this  incompre- 
hensible recrudescence.  There  was  not  a  soul  in  Paris  to 

166 


THE  OUTSIDER  167 

whom  he  owed  an  explanation,  and  he  was  glad  to  think  of 
Gaby.  She  was  a  queer  yet  delightful  child;  she  would 
make  the  most  charming  and  the  strangest  of  friends.  Yet, 
in  this  pleasure,  recurred  again  and  again  that  irritating 
discomfort. 

He  had  walked  himself  into  a  glowing  warmth  by  the 
time  he  reached  the  Outer  Boulevards.  The  cafe  of  their 
rendezvous  was  a  modest  drinking  den  sheltered  behind  a 
row  of  street  stalls.  In  front  was  an  open  bar,  behind  which 
sat  the  proprietress.  Mortimer  walked  right  through  to  the 
inner  room.  Ezra  and  Fernande  and  Gaby  were  at  a 
corner  table,  with  glasses  in  front  of  them.  As  they  turned 
towards  him  a  sincere  joyousness  came  over  Mortimer. 


"fa  va,  ga  va.    Et  vousf" 

He  gave  a  friendly  squeeze  to  Gaby's  hand.  Her  grey- 
blue  eyes  were  bright.  The  golden  curls  under  the  black 
hat  shook  a  welcome  at  him.  Fernande  smiled  at  him  out 
of  a  sad  face. 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you  people,"  said  Mortimer,  honestly. 

"You've  been  having  the  blues,"  said  Ezra. 

"Just  coming  out  of  them." 

"I  have  them  always,"  sighed  Fernande. 

"Do  you  ever  have  them,  Miss  Gaby?"  asked  Mortimer. 

Gaby  nodded. 

"Rubbish,"  said  Fernande,  violently.  "You  haven't  got 
anything  to  have  the  blues  with.  '  ' 

"Don't  be  jealous,  Fernande,"  said  Ezra,  "other  people 
do  have  the  blues." 

Mortimer  marked  with  some  astonishment  the  natural 
familiarity  with  which  Ezra  addressed  Fernande.  This 
was  the  faculty  which  he  sometimes  envied  and  sometimes 
disliked  in  him.  Fernande  seemed  to  be  pleased  with  it, 
for  she  turned  her  earnest  face  to  Ezra  and  smiled  at  him. 


168  THE  OUTSIDER 

"Not  Gaby.  She  is  only  petulant  or  sulky.  Besides,  I 
don't  believe,  en  principe,  that  people  under  thirty  ever 
get  the  blues.  The  best  they  get  is  a  rehearsal." 

She  spoke  gravely,  almost  with  an  affectation  of  languor. 
Mortimer  looked  at  her  with  involuntary  interest.  There 
was  something  yellowish  in  her  face ;  her  great  brown  eyes 
were  unfocussed,  though  she  spoke  to  Ezra.  Her  hair  came 
down  her  high  forehead  over  either  eyebrow.  Her  lips  were 
thin,  so  that  even  in  relaxation  they  looked  self-conscious. 
But  her  voice  attracted  most  attention,  by  its  extraordinary 
melancholy.  The  lips  scarcely  moved  as  she  spoke,  as  though 
some  other  will  than  her  own  were  utilising  them  for  utter- 
ance. 

' '  I  have  no  respect  for  people  who  never  have  the  blues, ' ' 
said  Ezra.  "A  decent  person  should  be  dejected  now  and 
again.  It  is  indecent  to  be  in  eternal  good  spirits. ' ' 

"And  I  have  no  respect  for  people  who  are  never  bored," 
said  Fernande. 

Fernande  and  Ezra  were  speaking  at  each  other.  It  is 
strange  with  what  rapidity  two  minds  may  properly  com- 
municate what  in  language  would  be  if  not  impossible,  then 
ungraceful.  For  between  these  two  an  obvious  under- 
current of  unspoken  conversation  passed  to  and  fro  and 
declared  an  astonished  mutual  interest.  Nothing  that  they 
said  could  matter  now.  Mortimer  felt  that  the  first  moment 
of  their  meeting  here  must  have  struck  a  strong  common 
cord  in  their  moods. 

He  withdrew  his  eyes  from  both  of  them  and  turned 
to  Gaby. 

"Gaby,"  he  said,  omitting  the  "mademoiselle"  with  an 
effort,  "you  must  provide  more  conversation  than  you  did 
last  time.  Your  friend  is  talkative  compared  with  you." 

"She  is  very  clever,"  answered  Gaby.  "N'est-ce  pas, 
Fernande?" 


THE  OUTSIDER  169 

"Who  wouldn't  be,  compared  with  you?"  asked  Fer- 
nando. 

"I  told  you  she's  clever,"  said  Gaby,  quite  unruffled. 
"I'm  not." 

"I'm  tempted  to  ask  you  an  interesting  question, "Fer- 
nanda," said  Ezra. 

She  turned  a  ready  face  'to  him. 

"What  is  your  attitude  towards  someone  who  speaks  to 
you  on  the  street,  as  I  did  ? ' ' 

"Men  are  funny  in  that  respect,"  she  answered,  delib- 
erately, "but  they  are  nearly  all  fools.  I  hate  their  painful 
ingenuousness.  I  think  most  men  are  ingenus  until  their 
dying  day.  And  I  also  hate  the  rare,  self -certain  man,  who 
assumes  tacitly  that  his  company  is  welcome." 

' '  How  is  one  to  know  ? ' '  asked  Ezra. 

"Don't  be  hypocritical,"  she  answered,  smiling.  "In 
any  case,  if  I  do  meet  a  person  for  the  second  time,  it's 
rare,  isn't  it,  Gaby?" 

Gaby  nodded. 

"You  would  class  me  as  a  self-confident  man,  then," 
asked  Ezra,  glancing  at  Mortimer  slyly. 

"Yes  and  no.  You  are  self-confident  not  because  you  are 
conceited  but  because  you  think  little  enough  of  anyone 
else  to  take  a  snub  with  amusement." 

1 '  Why  didn  't  you  speak  so  cleverly  that  first  afternoon  ? ' ' 
said  Ezra,  with  wide  open  eyes  fixed  on  her. 

"I  was  too  interested  in  you  then,"  she  replied.  "I 
speak  best  when  I  'm  really  bored. ' ' 

"And  what  do  you  do  mostly  when  you  are  bored  and 
alone?"  asked  Ezra. 

"This,"  she  answered,  then  looked  swiftly  round.  There 
was  no  one  in  the  room  with  the  four  of  them.  She  opened 
her  bag  and  took  out  a  piece  of  folded  paper  and  a  dainty 


170  THE  OUTSIDER 

little  penknife.  Smiling  she  opened  the. paper  on  the  table. 
It  contained  a  white,  glistening  powder. 

"Cocaine,"  ejaculated  Mortimer,  though  he  had  never 
seen  cocaine. 

Fernande  opened  the  penknife,. and  took  a  few  grains  of 
the  powder  on  the  blade;  she  carried  this  to  her  nostrils, 
and  inhaled  swiftly — and  then  repeated  this  a  second  and 
third  time.  Then  deliberately  she  folded  the  paper,  placed 
it  with  the  penknife  in  the  bag,  and  turned  to  Gaby. 

"N'est-ce  pas,  Gaby?" 

Gaby  nodded. 

Mortimer  was  dumbstruck.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had 
seen  the  powder  taken,  ^nd  what  astounded  him  most  was 
the  simplicity  of  the  action. 

' '  Your  friend  is  overwhelmed, ' '  said  Fernande.  ' '  Speak 
to  him." 

"You  must  excuse  him,"  said  Ezra,  though  he  himself, 
under  his  composure,  was  equally  astounded.  "He  is 
young  and  naive.  He  believed  that  people  take  cocaine  in 
dim-lit  rooms,  after  mysterious  ceremonies,  and  then  walk 
under  the  moonlight  with  distended  eyes  and  hair  lifted 
by  the  wind. ' ' 

"It's  really  good  for  headaches,"  said  Fernande.  "But 
very  expensive,  of  course." 

"I'm  afraid  there's  something  elemental  in  your  make- 
up that  objects  to  these  things,  Mortimer." 

"It's  something  foolish  in  my  training." 

"I  must  explain  to  you,  Fernande,"  said  Ezra,  "that 
my  friend  belongs  to  a  Far- West  American,  respectable 
city.  He  is  now  in  Europe  trying  to  educate  himself,  but 
I  believe  his  mind  has  been  almost  ruined  despite  its  original 
sterling  quality." 

"I  cannot  any  longer  understand  prejudices,"  said  Fer- 
nande. "It  is  even  incomprehensible  to  me  how  a  human 


THE  OUTSIDER  171 

being  can  have  a  point  of  view  of  any  kind.  I  half  remem- 
ber having  had  points  of  view  in  my  childhood  and  youth. 
But  at  thirty  years  of  age  that  mere  state  of  mind  is  a 
puzzle  to  me.  Gaby  doesn't  believe  any  more  than  I  do. 
She  hasn't  intelligence  enough  to  perform  the  act  of  be- 
lieving, and  I  have  too  much  intelligence.  N'est-ce  pas, 
Gaby?" 

Gaby  nodded,  smiling,  as  if  it  did  not  matter  what  Fer- 
nande  said. 

"I'm  just  beginning  to  feel  the  effects,"  said  Fernande, 
meditatively,  tapping  her  nose.  ' '  There  is  something  fool- 
ishly pleasant  in  being  able  to  poke  your  nose  and  feel  most 
of  it  a  dead  bulk." 

"My  friend  Mortimer  is  suffering,"  said  Ezra,  malic- 
iously. ' '  He  is  trying  hard  to  shake  himself  free  from  what 
he  has  been  told  to  believe  concerning  these  things. ' ' 

"It  is  true,"  said  Mortimer,  almost  ashamed.  "I  can't 
see  it  all  in  an  impersonal  way.  The  whole  of  my  home  town 
rises  in  me,  horrified  and  denunciatory." 

Unseen  of  Mortimer  and  Gaby,  Ezra  had  taken  Fer- 
nande's  hand  under  the  table.  His  heart  was  beating  in 
a  manner  foreign  to  him.  This  strange  woman ! 

' '  You  have  temptations  to  try  and  save  this  woman, ' '  sug- 
gested Ezra,  his  hand  trembling.  In  his  free  hand  he  held 
a  cigarette. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know  I'm  a  pathetic  object,"  conceded 
Mortimer.  "I'm  the  honest  working  man  getting  culture 
in  the  evenings,  struggling  dumbly  for  the  higher  life." 

The  glasses  on  the  table  were  empty.  Ezra  called  for 
another  round,  puzzling  in  his  mind  how  they  were  going 
to  pass  the  rest  of  the  evening.  Himself,  he  could  have 
sat  there  indefinitely  with  Fernande,  learning  the  indi- 
vidual. But  he  did  not  know  how  the  others  felt. 

Mortimer  had  transferred  his  interest  to  Gaby  again. 


172  THE  OUTSIDER 

There  was  something  special  in  the  make-up  of  the  child 
if  Fernande  took  to  her  so.  But  it  was  easy  to  suspect 
this  of  any  one ;  by  dint  of  staring  long  enough  at  any  fool, 
he  reflected,  we  can  convince  ourselves  that  there  is  an 
unusual  quality  in  his  face.  But  Gaby  was  unusual.  Her 
stupidity  was  not  feigned,  and  yet  not  real.  Perhaps  she 
was  lazily  conscious  of  all  things,  and  understood  more 
than  she  cared  to  account  for,  to  others  or  to  herself.  Was 
the  face  as  childlike  as  it  looked?  Was  there  not  a  sug- 
gestion of  purpose  in  those  ingenuous  lips?  Or  was  it 
all  over-consciousness  on  his  part?  Finally  he  conceived 
the  idea  that  as  soon  as  a  woman  interests  a  man  she  be- 
gins, ever  so  slightly,  to  make  a  fool  of  him.  And  Gaby 
would  do  it  by  a  mechanical  trick  aided  by  a  trained  com- 
posure. Or  else  this  was  all  nonsense.  At  all  events  he 
was  watching  her  with  renewed  interest,  and  whatever  his 
thoughts  were,  he  could  take  an  acute  pleasure  in  the  elf- 
like  features,  and  more  particularly  in  the  irresistible  laugh- 
ter playing  round  her  eyes.  He  determined  that  she  would 
not  discompose  him. 

"Do  you  ever  take  cocaine?"  he  asked  her  abruptly. 

"0  yes." 

"Often?" 

"What  is  often?" 

He  did  not  know. 

"How  often,  then?" 

"Every  day." 

"Since  when?" 

"Since  a  year  ago." 

"Is  that  how  long  you  know  Fernande?" 

"Yes."  He  thought  he  remembered  her  saying  they 
were  cousins. 

This  interrogatory  had  been  carried  on  in  low  tones,  for 
Ezra  was  speaking  softly  to  Fernande. 


THE  OUTSIDER  173 

"Your  friend  Fernande  is  an  interesting  woman,"  said 
Mortimer. 

"She  likes  me  very  much,"  said  Gaby,  irrelevantly. 

"Do  you  like  her?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Why  does  she  like  you?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Do  you  two  live  together?" 

"Yes." 

"Where?" 

"In  the  rue  Dubreuil,  number  10." 

"Can't  you  give  me  anything  more  than  a  plain  an- 
swer?" he  asked  at  length,  tired  of  questioning  her. 

"No." 

"Then  I  won't  speak  to  you  any  more,"  he  said,  to 
which  she  made  no  reply,  only  laughing  at  him  out  of 
her  eyes. 

Ezra  came  out  of  his  tete-a-tete  with  Fernande  and  spoke 
more  loudly. 

"I  have  taken  root  in  Paris  too  deeply,"  he  was  say- 
ing, dissatisfied.  "Vapours  are  accumulating  in  my 
mind."  He  sighed.  "I  want  as  ever  something  unusual 
and  I  shall  begin  the  hunt  again  before  long.  Mortimer, 
I  shall  be  going  away  from  here  soon.  The  French  lan- 
guage begins  to  bore  me.  It  is  a  monotonous  language, 
isn't  it,  Fernande?" 

"As  monotonous  as  one's  self.  Ezra,  tell  me  something 
to  interest  me." 

"Ask  Mortimer  to  do  that.  He  is  the  soul  of  earnest- 
ness. He  does  everything  with  a  conviction,  and  he  can 
give  you  a  good  reason  for  every  moment  of  his  life. ' ' 

"People  could  no  more  say  what  they  think  than  they 
could  run  into  the  streets  with  their  clothes  off,"  said 
Fernande  contemptuously,  "In  any  case,  I  don't  want  to 


174  THE  OUTSIDER 

know  what  any  one  thinks — except  Gaby.     If  I  could  only 
know  what  she  thinks." 

"Mortimer  already  feels  uncomfortable  when  you  speak 
like  that,"  said  Ezra. 

"Ah,  once  on  a  time  I  was  otherwise,"  said  Fernande.  "I 
too  had  convictions  and  believed  that  life  was  a  thing  to 
be  made  a  fuss  of.  What  a  queer  idea  it  seems  now.  I 
am  even  past  apologising  for  myself."  She  sat  up  sud- 
denly. "Why  am  I  talking  like  this  again?  Distract  me, 
Ezra." 

"Let's  go  out  for  a  walk,"  he  suggested,  fearing  to  see 
her  bored. 

They  left  the  cafe  and  wandered  four  abreast  down  the 
Boulevard  Ornano  towards  the  outer  Boulevards. 

"Walking  like  this,  two  of  us  men,  and  two  women  with 
us,"  said  Ezra,  "is  one  of  those  things  that  wakens  old 
cords  in  us — those  where-and-when-was-I-doing-this-last — 
feelings. ' ' 

Fernande  had  taken  his  arm  and  their  hands  were 
clasped.  Ezra  talked  now  to  cover  an  embarrassment  that 
disturbed  him  with  its  newness. 

"I  think  that  the  basis  of  solid  social  relationships  and 
problems  is  not  a  triangle,  as  the  novels  and  the  movies 
say,  but  a  quadrilateral,  two  men  and  their  companions. 
I  suppose  that  all  human  relationships  can  be  expressed 
geometrically.  A  rightangled  triangle  is  the  honest  wife, 
and  husband  and  child ;  the  scalene  triangle  is  the  problem 
play,  the  clash  of  temperaments  held  together  by  the  rivets 
of  marriage,  an  irregular  quadrilateral  is  an  ill-balanced 
friendship  of  two  couples.  An  ellipse  is  the  symbol  of  a 
baffling  and  fascinating  woman — "  he  pressed  Fernande 's 
arm,  and  she  laughed  softly.  "A  circle  is  the  simplicity 
of  friend  Mortimer,  but  an  ellipse  is  a  marvellous  circle 
with  two  centres,  the  individual  with  the  dual  personality.'* 


THE  OUTSIDER  175 

Mortimer  half  listened  to  Ezra.  He  was  recovering  the 
spirits  he  had  lost  in  the  afternoon,  and  now  he  was  happy 
near  Gaby.  He  waited  for  a  chance  to  separate  from  the 
other  two,  and  seized  it  when  a  little  crowd  of  people  split 
them.  He  let  Ezra  and  Fernande  walk  in  front. 

"Do  you  think  my  friend  Ezra  is  clever,  Gaby?" 

"Yes.     Fernande  is  smitten  with  him." 

"That's  quite  a  long  remark  for  you,"  he  said,  shaking 
her  slightly.  "But  I  think  that  Ezra  is  even  more  smitten 
with  her." 

"I  know  it." 

Mortimer  longed  for  some  of  Ezra's  savoir-faire,  to  tell 
Gaby  that  she  too  was  not  without  her  effect.  Only  how 
could  one  say  this  to  a  girl  one  met  for  the  second  time? 
And  how  say  it  in  Paris  where  such  confessions  were  merely 
conversational  small-change  ? 

"Gaby,"  he  said,  "I  don't  think  you  are  stupid,  in  spite 
of  all  your  protestations.  I  think  you  simply  don 't  care — 
vous  vous  moquez  du  monde.  You  think,  before  you  start 
thinking,  that  thinking  isn't  worth  while." 

"Oh,  you  talk  like  Fernande." 

"And  that's  awful,"  he  said,  chagrined. 

"Fernande  is  neurasthenic.  She  tried  to  commit  suicide 
and  was  in  the  hospital  for  three  months." 

"Why  did  she  do  that?" 

"Her  lover  committed  suicide.  I  shall  never  love  any- 
body." 

"Because  it's  too  disastrous?" 

"Yes." 

"Not  as  long  as  you  live,  never,  never?" 

"Never,  never." 

"Never  even  have  a  friend?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  shall  have  a  friend,  but  I  won't  love  him." 

"And  must  he  love  you?" 


176  THE  OUTSIDER 

"I  don't  care. 

"Supposing  he  would  love  you  too  much?" 

' '  So  much  the  worse  for  him. ' ' 

They  were  walking  down  the  rue  Tronchet,  between  the 
naked  trees.  In  front  of  them  the  Avenue  was  closed 
square  by  the  symmetry  of  the  Madeleine,  in  front  of 
which  the  statue  of  Lavoisier  rose  up  dimly. 

Near  the  corner  of  the  Place  de  la  Madeleine  Ezra  and 
Fernande  stopped  till  they  were  on  a  level  with  the  other 
two.  Ezra  had  changed  sides,  to  be  next  to  Mortimer. 

"Have  you  seen  them?"  he  asked  in  English,  in  a  low, 
amused  whisper. 

"Whom?"  asked  Mortimer,  startled. 

"C.  and  M.  They've  been  following  us  from  the  rue 
Lafayette.  They're  on  the  other  side  now.  Don't  look." 

A  dreadful  coldness  took  hold  of  Mortimer. 

"Damn!"  he  said,  softly. 

' '  I  wouldn  't  have  told  you  if  they  hadn  't  been  following 
us  so  long.  Please  excuse  us — "  he  interrupted  himself 
in  French — "it's  something  we've  forgotten.  But  they 
might  try  and  molest  us." 

Mortimer's  limbs  were  as  of  lead,  and  his  heart  too. 
Ezra  might  not  care  a  fig  about  Mado — but  Carmen !  Then, 
with  his  utter  dismay,  there  woke  a  dull,  impotent  fury. 
He  stared  away  in  front  of  him,  seeing  nothing,  and  curs- 
ing everything  bitterly. 

"Well,"  he  said  at  length,  half  choking,  "there's  noth- 
ing to  be  done,  I  suppose.  Let  them  walk.  We  can't  go 
across  and  tell  them  to  go  away." 

"I  suggest  we  take  a  taxi.  We'll  find  one  round  the 
corner.  What  do  you  say?" 

"Alright.  Keep  your  eyes  off  the  opposite  side  of  the 
street." 

They  walked  on  again  slowly.     A  heavy  darkness  had 


THE  OUTSIDER  177 

come  over  Mortimer.  The  light  that  had  returned  to  him 
had  vanished  again,  and  there  rose  again  in  him  the  sullen 
despair  of  the  afternoon. 

Unseen  of  them,  Ma  do  and  Carmen  walked  swiftly  ahead 
and  crossed  the  street  suddenly.  With  angry  faces  they 
came  up  against  the  four.  Mortimer  did  not  see  them  till 
they  were  five  or  six  steps  off.  Then  the  chill  numbed  him 
again.  Mechanically  he  raised  his  hat  to  Carmen,  said 
"Goodnight,"  and  passed  on.  Carmen  had  fixed  on  him 
two  wide  and  blazing  eyes ;  he  saw  them  still  when  she  was 
gone. 

"Mortimer,  they're  following  close  behind  again,"  said 
Ezra,  still  amused.  "They're  out  for  blood." 

His  amusement  angered  Mortimer.  "This  isn't  a  joke," 
he  said,  viciously. 

"Isn't  it?"  asked  Ezra.    "Then  what  the  devil  is  it?" 

"Damn  it,  man.     There  might  be  a  fight." 

Ezra  stopped  short.  ' '  You  're  right, ' '  he  said.  ' '  I  didn  't 
think  of  it.  Fools  we  are."  He  thought  for  a  moment. 

"Look  here,"  he  said  addressing  Gaby  and  Fernande. 
"Will  you  excuse  this  rather  awkward  situation?  There 
are  two  young  ladies  behind  who  think  they  have  an  in- 
alienable right  to  our  company — Mortimer's  and  mine,  I 
mean.  They've  followed  us  for  ten  minutes  and  they  might 
assert  their  rights  more  forcibly  soon.  If  you  don 't  mind, 
we'll  speak  to  them  a  moment." 

Gaby's  eyes  laughed  joyously.  Fernande  looked  long 
and  coldly  at  Ezra. 

"Don't  be  long,  Monsieur/'  she  said.  "We'll  wait 
here." 

Mortimer  and  Ezra  turned  back  a  dozen  steps,  to  where 
Mado  and  Carmen  stood  with  their  heads  together. 

"Good  evening,"  said  Mortimer. 

Carmen  looked  intently  and  silently  at  him.    In  the 


178  THE  OUTSIDER 

dimness  her  face  was  as  of  marble.  She  did  not  answer 
him.  Only  her  hands,  clenched  on  her  bosom,  shuddered. 
Mortimer  set  his  teeth,  determined  to  have  his  own  way. 

"You've  been  following  us,"  said  Ezra. 

"Quite  true,"  said  Mado,  jauntily.  "You've  noticed  it 
at  last?" 

"Well,  you  mustn't  follow  us  any  more,"  said  Ezra, 
trying  to  make  the  sentence  ring  forcible. 

"Why?" 

"Because  I  don't  want  it." 

"And  I  do  want  it.  My  do  is  as  good  as  your  don't. 
And  the  street  is  common  property  to  ladies  and  liars. ' ' 

"Listen,  Mado.  It's  this  choice;  either  you  stop  follow- 
ing us  now,  or  else  you  will  never  speak  with  me  again. 
Nor  Carmen  with  Mortimer." 

Carmen  uttered  a  moan  that  wrung  Mortimer's  heart. 
Mado  was  taken  aback.  It  was  easy  to  see  that  she  had 
not  expected  Ezra  to  offer  any  continuation  at  all  of  their 
friendship.  Then  she  blazed  up  again. 

"You  lie,"  she  said.  "You  only  say  that  to  get  us  off 
the  track." 

1 '  I  can 't  stand  here  talking  with  you, ' '  said  Ezra,  losing 
patience.  "There's  the  choice.  Come  along  Mortimer." 

Mortimer  had  gathered  strength.  He  stepped  closer  to 
Carmen.  "What  Ezra  says  is  true,  Carmen,"  he  said, 
coldly.  "You  mustn't  do  this  kind  of  thing.  If  you'll 
go  home  now,  like  a  good  girl,  you  can  meet  me  tomorrow 
evening  at  the  Lapin  Cuit.  And  if  you  don't  know  how 
to  behave  you  must  never  speak  to  me  again. ' ' 

"I  won't  follow  you,  Mortimer,  I  won't  follow,"  she 
stammered.  "Only  you  will  come  tomorrow  evening?" 

"I  tell  you,"  he  repeated,  annoyed,  "if  you  behave  like 
an  Apache  and  follow  people  in  the  streets  I  can't  have 
anything  to  do  with  you.  Goodnight." 


THE  OUTSIDER  179 

Ezra  and  he  turned  back;  they  heard  a  fierce  whisper 
from  Mado :  ' '  They  are  liars. ' ' 

Gaby  and  Fernande  had  walked  on  a  little;  when  the 
two  men  caught  up  with  them  Ezra  cast  a  glance  back. 

"They're  still  following,"  he  said  grimly.  "We'll  take 
a  taxi." 

He  addressed  Fernande  and  Gaby. 

"Those  two  girls  you  see  there,"  he  said,  easily,  "are 
former  friends  of  Mortimer  and  myself.  They  don 't  know 
how  to  behave,  and  Mortimer  and  I  can't  teach  them,  so 
we've  decided  to  fly  for  it.  And  you  must  with  us.  I 
mean  we  must  take  a  taxi  and  go  for  a  ride. ' ' 

Fernande 's  slight  disdain  had  disappeared. 

"I  asked  you  to  distract  me,  Ezra,  and  you're  not  fail- 
ing. We  certainly  shan't  take  a  taxi.  We're  going  to 
stop  here  and  receive  the  ladies  and  argue  out  the  rights 
of  possession." 

Mortimer  was  taken  aback  by  this  proposition.  "You 
mustn't  do  that,"  he  said,  vigorously.  "One  at  least  of 
the  girls  is  in  deadly  earnest." 

"So  much  the  better,"  said  Fernande. 

"No,  Mortimer  is  right,"  Ezra  broke  in.  "They're 
both  in  deadly  earnest,  arid  it's  possible  they  won't  confine 
their  arguments  to  logic.  We  can 't  have  a  brawl  here. ' ' 

The  amusement  of  the  other  three  was  wormwood  to 
Mortimer.  And  then  again  rose  the  contradictory  anger 
in  him.  Why  was  he  such  an  earnest  fool  ?  Wasn  't  Gaby 's 
silent,  ingenuous  smile  the  true  measure  of  the  situation? 

"Look  here,  perhaps  they're  only  happening  to  be  going 
this  way,"  suggested  Mortimer  suddenly.  "You  know 
they  live  in  that  direction.  Let's  cross  the  road  and  go 
back  to  the  rue  Tronchet." 

They  were  now  at  the  corner  of  the  Greater  Boulevards. 


180  THE  OUTSIDER. 

They  crossed  the  street  and  began  to  walk  back.  Halfway 
to  the  rue  de  Seze  Ezra  looked  back  again. 

"It's  no  use,"  he  said,  shrugging  his  shoulders. 
"They've  turned  back.  They're  going  to  follow  us."  He 
was  losing  his  temper. 

"I  have  another  suggestion,"  said  Fernande.  "Why 
should  not  you  two  men  frankly  give  in?  We'll  leave 
you." 

"I'll  be  damned  if  you  do,"  said  Ezra  vehemently,  and 
seized  her  arm.  He  fixed  two  furious  eyes  on  her.  Fer- 
nande laughed,  but  her  eyes  answered  Ezra  with  a  kind 
of  gratitude. 

"Here's  a  taxi,"  said  Ezra.    "Taxi!" 

A  free  taxi  had  turned  out  of  the  rue  de  Seze.  It 
pulled  up  slowly  where  the  four  stood.  Ezra  opened  the 
door  swiftly  and  the  two  girls  stepped  in  hastily,  Gaby  on 
the  swing  seat,  opposite  Fernande.  Mortimer  went  in  next, 
but  Ezra  had  not  time  to  get  in  before  Mado  was  at  the 
door.  She  seized  Ezra's  arm. 

"I'm  coming  too,"  she  panted. 

"Go  away,  Mado,"  said  Ezra,  in  a  low  voice. 

"Never!" 

"Alright,  chauffeur,  corner  of  the  rue  Lafayette,"  said 
Ezra  loudly,  but  in  a  voice  that  trembled.  He  had  seized 
Mado's  hand.  Suddenly,  as  the  taxi  started,  he  twisted  the 
arm  he  held.  Mado  bent,  with  a  cry  more  of  amazement 
than  of  pain.  Ezra  thrust  her  from  him.  Twisted  as 
she  was,  she  staggered  back  and  almost  fell.  Ezra  leapt 
into  the  taxi  and  pulled  the  door  to. 

"I  didn't  hurt  her,"  he  said,  angrily.  "It's  the  last 
she'll  see  of  me." 

At  that  moment,  Mortimer,  staring  grimly  through  the 
window,  saw  Carmen,  with  white,  miserable  face  and  wide 


THE  OUTSIDER  181 

eyes  that  followed  the  moving  taxi.  The  mute  look  of  her 
pain  infuriated  him. 

Ezra  was  sitting  next  to  Fernande.  When  Mortimer 
turned  his  eyes  that  way  he  saw  Fernande 's  arms  round 
Ezra  and  her  lips  pressed  to  his.  He  looked  away  again 
hastily,  his  soul  revolting.  Then  he  looked  swiftly  at 
Gaby.  She  was  waiting  for  his  look,  and  met  it  with  her 
eternal  laughter. 

Fernande  took  her  arms  from  round  Ezra.  "This  is 
the  first  time  in  months,  Ezra,  that  I've  felt  anything  like 
a  heart -beat.  I'd  almost  forgotten  the  sensation.  Oh  why 
were  there  people  in  the  street?  I'd  have  stopped  and 
fought  it  out  with  the  two  girls.  I've  never  done  it  be- 
fore. But  Mado  must  love  you  terribly,  Ezra." 

"How  do  you  know  it  isn't  Mortimer  she  loves?" 

"You  wouldn't  dare  to  handle  Mortimer's  girl  in  that 
way.  She  does  love  you  terribly,  doesn't  she?  Say  that 
she  does." 

"Be  quiet,  Fernande,"  he  answered,  smiling  in  spite 
of  himself.  "You're  looking  for  cheap  sensations." 

Fernande  laughed  long  and  heartily.  "You  almost  lost 
your  beautiful  composure,  Ezra.  It's  no  good  being  pol- 
ished under  certain  circumstances,  is  it?  You've  got  to 
be  the  real  brute.  But  I  rather  like  the  way  you  under- 
stood that." 

The  taxi  was  moving  down  the  rue  Tronchet.  A  horrid 
idea  struck  Mortimer.  "They  may  be  following  us  in 
another  taxi,"  he  said.  He  turned  and  looked  out  of  the 
window.  "No."  He  was  relieved,  but  in  his  relief  there 
was  bitterness.  How  stupid  the  whole  thing  was;  and  he 
was  the  only  one  to  be  trapped  by  its  stupidity!  Ezra 
and  Fernande  rated  the  incident  at  its  right  value;  and 
Gaby  ignored  it.  He  was  the  only  fool  there. 

He  could  not  sit  still,  for  he  felt  an  amused  contempt 


182  THE  OUTSIDER 

rising  in  the  two  opposite  him.  There  was  something 
wrong  with  him:  he  was  a  yokel,  he  had  no  right  to  the 
life  and  spirit  he  was  seeking  in  Paris.  Or  he  had  yet 
to  win  that  right  by  making  himself  free.  And  yet,  though 
he  argued  and  believed  that  Ezra  and  Fernande  were  right, 
he  could  not  forgive  them. 

"Ezra,"  he  said,  "I'm  getting  out  of  this  taxi  with  Gaby. 
I  want  to  walk  with  her  alone. ' '  He  said  this  in  English, 
and  his  tone  implied  that  he  also  wanted  to  be  rid  of  Ezra 
and  Fernande.  Ezra  nodded  and  smiled,  understanding. 

" Allans,  Gaby,  we  are  going  for  a  walk.  We'll  leave 
them.  We'll  meet  you  at  the  Hotel  Picault  in  about  an 
hour  Ezra.  Wait  for  us  downstairs." 

He  took  Gaby's  arm  and  turned  with  her  towards  the 
Great  Boulevards.  He  wanted  now  to  mingle  with  the 
crowd  and  think.  The  slight  mist  had  lifted.  The  street 
lamps  shone  in  the  darkness  like  clear  points  of  reflection 
in  a  crystal  globe.  The  air  was  still  and  filled  with  a 
new  mildness. 

Paris  was  out  again.  Mortimer  felt  his  composure  re- 
turning to  him,  and  n'ow  even  his  resentment  against  Car- 
men was  dead.  Only  all  was  ended  between  them.  He 
had  been  mistaken  in  her;  she  was  a  good  child,  a  very 
good  child.  He  had  not  expected  her  to  understand  him, 
but  he  had  hoped  that  she  would  meet  him  instinctively 
and  with  unconscious  understanding.  It  did  not  matter 
now.  He  would  not  trust  himself  to  a  woman  again  as 
easily  as  he  had  trusted  himself  to  Carmen.  For  he  liked 
her,  and  the  thought  of  her  suffering  did  not  leave  him  un- 
moved. But  his  heart  was  as  iron  in  the  conviction  that  he 
would  not  return  to  her.  She  was  too  blind,  too  earnest. 
To  go  further  with  her  would  be  to  fare  worse  in  the  end. 
Six  months  from  now  and  it  would  be  impossible  to  leave 
her.  He  understood  that  now. 


THE  OUTSIDER  183 

And  Gaby  did  not  matter.  He  would  not  involve  him- 
self with  her  in  the  same  way,  for  she  would  never  let  him. 
She  would  never  care  for  him — and  he  was  glad  of  it. 
He  only  wanted  to  walk  with  her  always,  as  now,  to  watch 
lamplight  dancing  in  her  eyes,  to  watch  her  flashing  with 
her  looks  to  right  and  to  left  and  to  him,  silent  and  joyous. 
Gaby  would  know  him  a  year,  and  leave  him  with  as  little 
regret  as  a  forgetful  butterfly  feels  leaving  a  flower.  There 
was  certainty  in  her  carelessness  and  freedom;  he  could 
love  her  if  it  came  to  that,  and  he  could  tell  her  that  he 
loved  her  if  he  wanted  to;  she  would  not  stake  her  life 
on  him,  because  she  could  not  take  hold  of  it.  She  would 
walk  with  the  same  lightness  and  grace  through  year  after 
year,  and  men  would  be  to  her  as  sunshine  and  shadow 
on  a  spring. 

The  wild  crowds  flowed  left  and  right  of  him ;  he  forgot 
himself  in  a  return  of  exultation.  He  would  be  alone 
whatever  would  happen.  No  living  thing  would  chain  him 
to  earth;  he  would  pass  from  place  to  place,  from  one 
human  being  to  another,  self-sufficient  and  proud.  Sud- 
denly he  laughed. 

"Gaby,  the  best  philosophers  have  no  philosophy.  I'll 
try  and  forget  mine.  We've  got  to  go  back  and  meet  Ezra 
and  Fernande." 

It  was  now  close  on  ten ;  the  tide  of  the  boulevards  was  at 
its  highest,  and  beginning  to  set  homewards.  People 
walked  with  a  purpose — and  Mortimer  liked  them  less  then. 
He  had  strolled  with  Gaby  as  far  as  the  Boulevard  Se- 
bastopol,  and  now  they  went  back  down  the  other  side  of 
the  Boulevard,  the  darker  side,  for  every  boulevard  is  light 
on  one  side  and  dark  on  the  other. 

He  had  not  spoken  ten  sentences  with  Gaby  since  they 
had  left  the  taxi,  but  he  was  not  displeased,  and  he  did 
not  believe  her  to  be  so.  Meantime  he  wondered  how  it 


184  THE  OUTSIDER 

had  fared  with.  Ezra  and  Fernanda.  He  knew  now  that 
these  two  had  suddenly  been  swallowed  up  in  one  another. 
He  had  never  known  Ezra  to  display  such  overt  and  genu- 
ine interest  in  a  girl,  or  make  such  deliberate  and  anxious 
efforts  to  interest  her.  It  was,  indeed,  the  first  purpose 
of  any  kind  that  he  had  known  Ezra  to  show. 

They  crossed  the  rue  Boissy  d'Anglas  along  the  rue  St. 
Honore.  The  street  there  takes  a  bend  slight  enough  to 
cover  the  door  of  the  Hotel  Picault  from  anyone  on  the 
same  side  of  the  street.  As  Mortimer  came  slowly  round 
the  bend  he  saw  three  figures  under  the  lamp  in  front  of 
the  hotel,  Ezra,  Fernande — and  Carmen.  Too  late  to  turn 
back.  He  set  his  teeth  and  came  on  doggedly.  He  knew 
there  was  going  to  be  a  scene. 

He  raised  his  hat. 

Carmen  did  not  approach  him.  She  stood  on  the  further 
side  of  Ezra  and  Fernande,  keeping  her  face  in  the  shadow. 

"We've  had  a  bit  of  a  wild  time,  Mortimer,"  said  Ezra 
in  a  low  voice.  "Carmen  is  going  to  be  ill,  I  think." 

Mortimer  let  drop  Gaby's  arm.  Ezra's  serious  voice 
startled  him. 

' '  This  is  a  mess, ' '  he  said,  rubbing  his  forehead  violently. 
"What  shall  I  do?" 

"Take  Gaby  to  the  subway  and  come  back  to  Carmen." 

"What's  happened  here?" 

"We  came  here  ten  minutes  ago  and  found  the  kid  wait- 
ing here  at  the  door.  When  she  saw  only  me  and  Fernande, 
she  nearly  fainted.  Then  she  threw  herself  at  Fernande 's 
feet — I  mean  that  literally — and  pleaded  with  her  to  get 
you  back.  Damnation!  I've  never  seen  anything  like  it. 
She  just  hugged  her  knees.  We  nearly  had  a  crowd  round. 
We  had  to  promise  her, something." 

Mortimer  was  filled  with  an  unreasoning  rage  against 
Ezra  for  having  given  him  so  vivid  a  picture.  He  was 


THE  OUTSIDER  185 

baffled.  He  looked  at  Gaby;  her  face  was  turned  up  to 
the  lamp,  ingenuously  blank.  He  looked  at  Carmen,  shrunk 
in  on  herself,  her  face  turned  away  from  him.  "Just  a 
moment  Gaby." 

He  walked  over  to  Carmen. 

"Wait  here  a  few  minutes.  I  am  going  to  see  my  friend 
to  the  Metro  in  the  Place  de  la  Concorde,  and  then  I'll 
come  back." 

She  shivered  and  did  not  reply. 

"Will  you  two  wait  here  till  I  come  back?"  he  asked 
the  others. 

Ezra  shook  his  head.  "I  wouldn't  mind,  honestly,  but 
Fernande  is  really  a  bit  upset.  Carmen '11  wait  alright. 
Go  ahead." 

"Come,  Gaby." 

The  moment  that  Mortimer  had  crossed  the  street  with 
Gaby,  Carmen  turned. 

' '  I  thank  you  both, ' '  she  said.     Her  face  was  ashen  pale. 

"Goodnight,  Carmen,"  said  Ezra,  moved  in  spite  of 
himself. 

She  started  as  if  stung.  "No,  no,  don't  go  away  till 
he  comes  back.  I'm  afraid  to  be  alone."  Ezra  sighed 
helplessly  and  looked  at  Fernande.  "We  will  wait"  she 
said,  in  a  low  voice. 

Five  minutes  passed  before  Mortimer  returned.  When  he 
saw  him  coming,  Ezra  held  out  his  hand  to  Carmen. 

"Goodnight,  Carmen." 

"Goodnight,  Monsieur  Ezra." 

"Goodnight,  Carmen,"  said  Fernande.  "And  good 
luck." 

They  went  off  in  the  direction  of  the  city.  Mortimer  lifted 
his  hand  to  them  and  then  went  back  to  Carmen. 

"We  must  go  away  from  this  door,  Carmen.  Come,  I 
want  to  speak  with  you." 


186  THE  OUTSIDER 

They  walked  in  silence  as  far  as  the  narrow  little  rue 
d'Anjou.  There,  in  the  shadow,  Mortimer  stopped  and 
steeled  his  heart  for  the  miserable  task. 

"Hear  me,  Carmen — "  he  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"I'm  listening." 

"What  has  happened  tonight  makes  it  impossible  for  me 
to  see  you  again." 

She  uttered  a  short  cry  and  seized  his  arm. 

"It  isn't  because  of  the  way  you've  behaved,  Carmen, 
but  because  this  has  shown  me  that  things  have  gone  too 
far  between  us." 

The  girl  did  not  answer.  She  was  struggling  for  mas- 
tery over  her  tongue.  She  put  up  her  hands  to  her  face, 
and  Mortimer  could  see  that  she  was  crying  only  by  the 
tears  that  came  out  between  her  fingers.  Even  her  shoul- 
ders did  not  move. 

"Mortimer,"  she  said  with  a  strange  softness.  "I  have 
only  you  in  the  whole  world." 

Her  quiet  despair  inspired  him  with  helplessness.  He 
was  as  in  the  hands  of  a  purpose  not  his  own. 

"Carmen,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "what  can  I  do?  How 
may  I  stay  with  you  ?  If  I  do  not  leave  you  today,  it  will 
be  tomorrow.  And  what  then  ?  It  will  be  harder  for  you 
tomorrow." 

"Let  me  be  with  you  only  a  little  while,  Mortimer.  If 
I  must  leave  you  I  will  put  so  much  love  into  these  days 
that  I  will  not  care  any  more." 

There  was  a  new,  startling  simplicity  in  her  now. 

"But  Carmen,  that  is  only  a  way  of  speaking.  You 
know  it  will  be  harder  for  you." 

"Mortimer — "  still  in  the  same  sweet,  calm  voice,  "you 
cannot  do  this  now.  Am  I  a  thing  to  be  thrown  away  in 
a  moment?  You  want  your  liberty.  I  will  give  it  to 
you.  But  let  me  find  strength." 


THE  OUTSIDER  187 

He  bit  his  lips.    "No,"  he  said,  abruptly  and  coldly. 

"No?"  She  lifted  her  head.  "No?"  she  repeated 
fiercely.  "I  say  yes!  I  will  not  leave  you!" 

"This  is  nonsense,  Carmen." 

"It  is  nonsense,  then,"  she  raged.  "It  is  nonsense,  and 
yet  I  will  not  leave  you.  I  will  follow  you  day  and  night. 
I  will  go  hungry  and  thirsty  and  be  your  shadow." 

She  clutched  his  arm. 

"I  swear  to  you  by  my  mother  that  you  will  not  leave 
me  thus;  unless  you  kill  me." 

She  was  trembling  from  head  to  foot.  He  felt  that  in  the 
hands  that  gripped  his  arm.  Then  she  sobbed  and  was 
calm  again. 

"Mortimer,  do  not  leave  me,  do  not  leave  me.  Though 
you  hate  me,  though  you  cannot  bear  me,  do  not  leave  me. ' ' 

"I  do  not  hate  you,  Carmen,  I  like  you.  Only  I  know 
it  will  be  harder  later.  Then  you  will  never  be  able  to 
leave  me." 

"Mortimer,  I  swear  to  you  by  everything — in  one  month 
from  now  I  will  leave  you — yes,  even  though  you  should 
ask  me  to  stay — even  though  my  leaving  should  hurt  you. 
I  swear  to  you  that  at  the  end  of  a  month  I  will  go  from 
you  without  a  word,  without  even  saying  goodbye — and 
you  will  never,  never  see  me  again.  If  it  is  hard  for  you 
now  to  say  yes,  then  do  not  say  anything,  and  I  will  under- 
stand. Just  one  month " 

He  stared  away  from  her.  Who  was  this  burning  being 
that  was  now  eating  a  way  into  his  life  and  affections? 
Who  was  this  passionate  spirit  that  had  started  up  to  him 
out  of  the  swarming  of  the  universe,  and  now  claimed  the 
right  to  love  him? 

"Yes,"  he  said. 

She  did  not  make  a  sign  when  she  heard  this  word. 


188  THE  OUTSIDER 

After  a  moment  she  took  his  arm  and  walked  with  him  fur- 
ther into  the  dark,  lonely  little  street. 

"And  remember,  Carmen,  I  will  be  with  you  now  as 
I  have  always  been,  but  at  the  end  of  the  month,  you  will 
leave  me." 

"At  the  end  of  a  month  I  will  leave  you.  I  have  sworn 
it."  She  leaned  her  head  against  him.  "Oh,  how  good 
you  are  to  me!" 


CHAPTER  IX 

OCTOBER  was  closing  in  listless  days  for  Mortimer. 
The  morning  after  his  scene  with  Carmen  the  mild-man- 
nered proprietaire  came  up  and,  coughing  very  apologeti- 
cally, stammered  that  he  was  raising  the  rent  of  the  room 
from  two  hundred  to  three  hundred  francs  a  month.  There 
was  a  ludicrous  contrast  between  the  timidity  of  the  an- 
nouncement and  the  temerity  of  its  content.  Mortimer, 
still  in  bed,  sat  up  and  stared  grimly  at  the  man  who,  in 
sincere  embarrassment,  held  his  head  to  one  side  and  played 
with  his  hands. 

"That's  robbery,"  said  Mortimer. 

"Ah,  my  poor  sir,  prices  are  so  high." 

"But  nom  de  Dieut   A  hundred  francs  a  month." 

"My  poor  sir,  what  can  I  do?"  The  Frenchman  shifted 
on  his  feet,  spread  his  hands,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and 
tried  to  convey  with  gestures  that  he  himself  was  a  victim. 
Mortimer's  temper  began  to  rise. 

""Well,  I'll  leave  at  the  end  of  the  month,"  he  said, 
abruptly.  "And  now  get  out  of  the  room,  quick." 

The  proprietaire  withdrew. 

Mortimer's  mind  was  a  blank  on  his  finances;  they  had 
reached  that  stage  when  a  man  no  longer  cares  to  calculate 
and  recalculate.  In  a  kind  of  desperation  he  put  all  thought 
of  money  from  his  thoughts,  rose  and  wandered  out  in  a 
misty  sunshine. 

An  increasing  despair  of  himself  haunted  him  through 
the  day.  It  was  not  hard  to  avoid  in  thought  the  problem 
of  his  livelihood,  but  in  its  place  the  grimmer  problem 
of  himself  and  his  life  opened  a  net  of  darkness  through 
his  spirit.  He  could  not  understand  what  he  wanted  of 

189 


190  THE  OUTSIDER 

Carmen  or  she  of  him.  He  could  not  understand  what 
he  wanted  of  Gaby.  Least  of  all  could  he  understand 
what  he  wanted  of  himself.  With  all  the  strength  of  his 
soul  he  longed  to  be  left  alone,  to  be  free  of  human  com- 
plications. Why  then  had  he  involved  himself  so  deeply 
with  Carmen?  Was  it  impossible  to  meet  human  beings 
with  a  half-offer  of  love  and  friendship,  which  should  be 
no  encroachment  on  his  ultimate  liberty? 

He  denied  that.  There  was  a  world  where  men  and 
women  retained  their  freedom,  where  the  intolerable  chains 
of  relationships  stronger  than  themselves  could  never  be 
forged.  That  world  was  Paris,  and  if  he  did  not  know 
that  world,  the  fault  was  his.  For,  he  argued  with  him- 
self, he  alone  was  master  of  his  sense  of  duty.  He  himself 
was  forging  these  chains,  perhaps  by  attaching  too  much 
importance  to  Carmen's  attitude,  perhaps  by  taking  him- 
self too  seriously. 

During  these  days  he  frequented  the  Lapin  Cuit  assidu- 
ously, and  saw  Carmen  almost  every  evening.  He  gave 
loose  rein  to  the  pleasure  she  afforded  him.  She  was  so 
hopelessly  happy  in  his  company,  so  shamelessly  good,  that 
he  could  not  resist  the  infection.  At  times  he  felt  con- 
temptuous of  the  mean  crowd  that  haunted  the  Lapin 
Cuit,  and  at  other  times  he  was  hotly  contemptuous  of  his 
own  sense  of  aloofness. 

Rumours  had  travelled  round  the  Lapin  Cuit  that  Morti- 
mer and  Carmen  were  separating.  These  rumours  had 
come  to  the  ears  of  Carmen ;  they  were  wormwood  to  her. 
In  particular  she  could  not  bear  the  sight  of  Renee,  who 
had  left  Edmond  definitely,  and  was  flaunting  Masters 
to  the  world  at  large.  Masters  was,  after  all,  an  English- 
man and  a  gentleman — someone  who  did  things  occasion- 
ally incomprehensible  to  the  girls  of  the  Lapin  Cuit.  Ed- 


THE  OUTSIDER  191 

mond  was  a  mere  assistant  waiter  with  two  front  teeth 
missing. 

One  evening  he  sat  with  her  in  the  Lapin  Cuit.  He 
had  taken  Koenigsmark  with  him  to  read,  but  early  in  the 
evening  Gorman  came  in,  excited,  and  interrupted  him. 

"Long,  I  got  a  cracker  jack  business  proposition  for  you. 
Can  you  sell  two  hundred  thousand  kilos  of  first-class 
cocoa?" 

Mortimer  was  amused.  "I  couldn't  sell  a  furnished 
house  for  a  thousand  francs,  Gorman." 

"Aw,  bull!" 

"I  can't  do  that  kind  of  thing,  Gorman,  honest.  When 
a  businessman  sees  me  coming  he  starts  to  laugh?" 

"Why?" 

"I  don't  know.  He  sees  through  me  and  knows  I'm 
not  interested." 

"That's  foolish  talk,  Long.  You've  been  a  good  pal  to 
me.  When  I've  got  a  good  thing  on  I  want  to  put  you 
wise  to  it.  Look  here;  this  is  straight  dope.  There's 
fifty  centimes  clear  profit  on  each  kilo.  We'll  go  fifty- 
fifty  if  you  can  sell  the  stuff.  There 's  a  hundred  thousand 
francs  between  us.  Fifty  thousand  each." 

"It's  no  use,  Gorman.  You  don't  know  who  you're  talk- 
ing to ;  it 's  a  man  that  was  never  born  to  make  fifty  thou- 
sand francs  in  his  life.  You're  up  against  fate." 

"If  you  can't  sell  that  stuff  I've  got  another  proposition. 
Ten  thousand  iron  buckets,  nineteen  francs  each.  The 
iron  alone  is  worth  more  than  that ;  big,  heavy  buckets. ' ' 

Masters  came  in  with  Renee  and  sat,  down  at  the  next 
table.  Gorman  lowered  his  voice.  "And  I've  got  a  hun- 
dred and  fifty  barrels  of  lime  juce  to  sell,  five  francs  a 
litre.  It  isn't  a  big  deal,  but  it's  money  in  our  pockets." 

"Tell  me,  Gorman,  where  the  devil  do  you  pick  up  all 


192  THE  OUTSIDER 

this  stuff?  I  could  live  next  door  to  a  cistern  of  lime- 
juice  and  never  think  of  selling  it." 

It  was  true;  he  could  not  understand  this  exuberant 
activity  of  fellows  like  Gorman.  Gorman  talked  of  busi- 
ness all  day  long,  chased  business  even  in  his  dreams,  fer- 
reted out  a  dozen  deals  a  day.  Mortimer  knew  that  Gor- 
man had  not  yet  made  money  on  them,  but  he  believed  that 
some  day  the  fellow  would  pull  off  a  deal.  Out  of  the 
hundreds  he  dabbled  in,  one  would  come  off,  and  in  the 
end  his  time  would  not  have  been  lost.  A  wild  desire 
started  up  suddenly  in  Mortimer  to  become  like  Gorman, 
to  run  about,  to  fuss,  to  ferret  out  stocks  and  businessmen 
— and  as  suddenly  died  down.  It  was  a  strange  world  to 
him ;  he  had  stated  the  truth  in  saying  that  a  businessman 
would  laugh  at  him.  "I'd  like  to  sell  you  two  hundred 
thousand  kilos  of  cocoa."  It  sounded  silly  in  his  own 
ears — and  if  another  businessman  took  it  seriously  Morti- 
mer would  feel  himself  a  fool  or  a  charlatan.  And  then, 
to  enter  an  office  when  everyone  would  know,  "That  fel- 
low's come  here  because  he  wants  to  make  some  money  out 
of  us,"  made  him  uncomfortable.  It  was  indelicate  to  go 
about  all  day  speaking  to  them  for  the  sake  of  making 
some  money. 

"It's  no  use,  Gorman,"  he  repeated.  "I've  got  not  a 
nickel's  worth  of  business  in  me.  I'd  rather  make  bricks 
for  a  living.  I'd  like  to  be  like  you,  but  I  can't." 

Gorman  was  puzzled  but  flattered  by  Mortimer's  ad- 
mission. 

"Man,  it's  as  simple  as  could  be " 

Mrs.  Cray  came  in,  flushed,  and  hailed  Gorman  joyously. 
Mortimer  made  room  for  her. 

"Charlie,"  she  cried,  excitedly,  "I've  got  a  buyer  for 
five  thousand  bottles  of  Scotch  whiskey — real  businessman. 
And  I  can  get  the  stuff." 


THE  OUTSIDER  193 

"Where  is  it?"  asked  Gorman. 

"Here  in  Paris,  in  a  warehouse,  waiting  to  be  taken  away. 
Good  stuff.  I've  had  some — smell  it."  She  breathed  into 
Gorman's  face  and  laughed.  Mortimer  surveyed  her  with 
disgust. 

* '  Good  stuff, ' '  said  Gorman,  very  seriously.  ' '  What 's  the 
dope?" 

"I  can't  get  an  'option  on  it,  Charlie.  You  must  go  and 
do  that."  She  leaned  to  him  and  spoke  into  his  ear. 

"Mon  petit,"  whispered  Carmen  to  Mortimer.  "She's 
kissing  him." 

"I  know.  Be  quiet."  Mrs.  Cray  repeated  the  manoeu- 
vre several  times,  pretending  that  the  information  was  of 
a  secret  nature,  and  kissing  Gorman  each  time.  Gorman 
was  smiling  and  winking  at  the  room. 

Renee,  where  she  sat,  could  see  Carmen,  and  now  that  the 
latter  could  prove  to  the  world  that  Mortimer  was  still 
hers,  she  did  not  mind  Renee's  triumphant  joy.  She  even 
felt  drawn  to  her ;  she  would  have  liked  to  rejoice  with  her. 

Masters  was  gloomy ;  his  arm  rested  mechanically  round 
Renee,  but  he  was  paying  no  attention  to  her. 

The  whispered  colloquoy  betwen  Gorman  and  Mrs.  Cray 
came  to  an  end.  Gorman  turned  to  Masters. 

"Look  here,  Masters.  Can  you  sell  stuff?  Can  you  sell 
two  hundred  thousand  kilos  of  cocoa?"  Masters  woke  up, 
looked  back  intently,  and  curled  his  lip. 

"I  can't  sell  anything  belonging  to  you,"  he  answered, 
"because  it  doesn't  exist." 

"Doesn't  exist?  I've  seen  the  stuff  with  my  own  eyes. 
You're  nuts." 

"Well  I  can't  sell  it,  anyway.    Get  Mrs.  Cray  to  sell  it." 

Gorman  blazed  up.  Mrs.  Cray  put  her  arm  round  him 
and  whispered  to  him  again.  Both  of  them  got  up. 

"These   blooming   Englishmen,"    said    Gorman,    aloud, 


194  THE  OUTSIDER 

mimicking  the  Cockney  accent.  "They  hain't  never  made 
a  blooming  shilling  of  their  own,  bunch  of  lousy  pikers,  so 
they  won 't  believe  that  anyone  else  can  make  money.  There 
ain't  no  red  blood  in  an  Englishman." 

Masters  did  not  stir.    Gorman  went  out  with  Mrs.  Cray. 

"Vermin,"  said  Masters,  audibly  and  bitterly.  "Bloody 
vermin. ' ' 

Mortimer  would  have  liked  to  speak  with  Masters,  but 
held  his  peace.  Surely  that  Englishman  had  a  wretched 
problem  of  his  own,  as  unhappy  as  Mortimer's. 

Was  there  a  man  in  the  whole  world  to  whom  life  came 
simply,  just  so  ?  And  was  there  a  man  in  the  whole  world 
who  could  solve  the  problem  of  another's  life?  No.  Every 
man  had  to  live  his  life  out;  even  those  that  wrote  books 
telling  men  how  to  live,  how  to  mingle  with  other  men,  had 
never  lived  their  own  lives  out  properly. 

His  mind  returned  to  Masters,  who  sat  glowering  to  him- 
self, in  evil  humour.  He  had  never  seen  Masters  in  this 
mood.  He  would  wait  till  Masters  moved,  and  then  invite 
him  to  walk  with  him  himself  and  Carmen. 

Carmen,  too,  wanted  the  four  of  them  to  walk  out.  She 
loved  to  walk  in  fours,  so,  and  hear  the  two  men  talking 
what  she  could  not  understand.  She  could  hang  on  to 
Mortimer's  arm  and  adore  him  surreptitiously.  She  could 
talk  to  him  under  her  breath  and  repeat  a  thousand  times 
that  she  loved  him  and  that  she  would  love  him  all  the  days 
of  her  life. 

"That  American  friend  of  yours,"  said  Masters,  sud- 
denly across  the  table,  "is  an  ordinary  buffoon.  I'm  sorry 
I  lost  my  temper  with  him. ' ' 

"He  means  no  harm,"  said  Mortimer. 

"There  are  times  when  I  can't  stand  these  people,"  said 
Masters,  restlessly.  "They're  so  vacuous,  so  hopelessly  un- 
human,  that  they  oughtn't  to  matter.  I  really  don't  know 


THE  OUTSIDER  105 

and  don't  care  whether  that  fellow  makes  money  or  not. 
It's  his  eternal  valuelessness  that  annoys  me." 

Then  he  relapsed  into  silence.  Carmen  and  Rem'c  smiled 
at  each  other. 

''Let's  go  out  and  walk,  Masters,"  suggested  Mortimer. 

They  went  out  by  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  among  the 
trees  of  the  Champs  Elysees.  Mortimer  again  took  up  the 
'theme  of  Gorman. 

"What  would  be  the  good  of  talking  with  Gorman?"  he 
asked.  "There's  no  way  of  coming  to  an  understanding 
with  him." 

"That's  true,"  admitted  Masters.  "Every  man  is  born 
with  a  feeling  that  he's  in  the  right.  It's  part  of  the  bio- 
logical equipment  of  us  all.  Good  God,  Long,  to  think  that 
some  people  believe  in  the  average  man!  There  isn't  even 
an  average  common  denominator  between  us — except  one, 
and  men  have  forgotten  it. ' ' 

' '  This  blasted  world, ' '  he  suddenly  began  to  rage.  ' '  The 
swindle  of  us  all.  There's  nothing  but  swindle,  and  such 
shallow  swindle !  "We  are  fooling  ourselves  and  each  other 
all  the  time.  "We  forget,  or  we  want  to  forget,  that  there's 
something  besides  this  blather  and  scum.  We  are  all  cursed 
to  pretend  and  to  talk  and  sham.  Hell!" 

Then  he  laughed  and  slipped  his  arm  through  Morti- 
mer's. 

"It  isn't  really  our  own  faultj"  he  began,  more  gently. 
"It's  the  tangle  that's  preceded  us.  Men  aren't  wicked. 
They  want  to  be  good,  and  simply  won't  let  each  other." 

"You're  right,"  said  Mortimer  quickly.  "They  all  want 
to  be  good  and  can't  let  each  other." 

Carmen  drew  Mortimer  suddenly  towards  her.  "Mon 
petit,"  she  whispered.  "Edmond  is  following  us.  I  just 
saw  him  behind  some  trees." 

Mortimer  shook  her  off.    "Be  quiet,  Carmen." 


196  THE  OUTSIDER 

"Men  were  not  made  to  know  each  other  by  direct  con- 
tact," said  the  Englishman.  "  Speak  to  a  man  only  when 
you  want  to  distract  or  deceive  him.  The  mechanics  of  our 
life  see  to  that.  There  is  only  one  way  for  one  man  to 
understand  another — when  they  stand  on  common  ground, 
when  they  meet  in  God. ' ' 

Mortimer  was  thrilled  by  Masters'  intense  language. 

"When  men  forget  God,"  Masters  went  on,  "they  have 
forgotten  the  universal  language.  There  is  only  one  wis- 
dom, and  that  is  the  knowledge  of  God.  What  is  the  use 
of  all  other  learning,  which  is  mere  pretence  ?  What  does 
science  teach  us?  Does  it  fill  our  souls  with  strength  and 
satisfaction  ?  Do  these  tinkettle  truths  matter  to  us  ?  What 
do  I  care  if  the  sun  goes  round  the  earth  as  Ptolemy  said 
or  the  earth  goes  round  the  sun  as  Copernicus  said?  All 
motion  is  relative,  any  way,  so  that  even  our  reversal  of 
Ptolemy  is  ridiculous.  Science  substitutes  one  mechanical 
jig-puzzle  for  another.  Each  generation  believes  its  scien- 
tific explanations  to  be  the  truth,  and  what  is  the  difference 
to  your  soul  between  having  the  truth  and  believing  you  have 
it?  None.  The  sensation  is  the  same.  The  value  so  far 
has  been  purely  mechanical  comfort,  and  real  progress  there 
has  not  been  for  thousands  of  years.  There 's  the  swindle ! 
the  belief  that  this  civilisation  of  mechanical  ingenuity  is 
an  advance  in  wisdom.  Men  drown  the  crying  of  their  souls 
in  the  noise  of  steamships  and  the  roar  of  aeroplanes.  They 
tell  themselves  that  there  is  comfort  in  the  knowledge  that 
the  famous  atom  is  really  composed  of  ions,  that  the  prob- 
lem of  life  is  merely  a  molecular  question.  And  it  isn't  the 
fault  of  men  of  science.  It's  our  fault;  we  want  to  believe 
in  the  ultimate  value  of  these  things.  And  they  have  no 
ultimate  value ;  they  are  ingenuities  for  doctors  and  chem- 
ists and  engineers  and  other  valuable  artisans.  Had  we  not 
blinded  ourselves  with  these  glittering  toys  we  might  have 


THE  OUTSIDER  197 

touched  real  knowledge  again;  we  might  have  returned  to 
God." 

They  crossed  the  Avenue  des  Champs  Elysees  glittering 
under  its  electric  lights,  and  wandered  by  withered  trees 
under  the  shadow  of  the  Grand  Palais  till  they  came  to  the 
bank  of  the  river. 

There  the  four  of  them  stood  still.  Far  away  on  the 
right  the  Tour  Eiffel  and  the  towers  of  the  Trocadero 
could  barely  be  seen,  and,  nearer  and  more  distinctly,  the 
columns  at  the  end  of  the  Alexander  Bridge  stood  up  clum- 
sily. No  one  spoke.  Masters  had  ended  on  a  tone  of  des- 
pair, as  if  conscious  that  even  now  he  talked  to  Mortimer  in 
vain,  and  Mortimer  waited,  knowing  that  Masters  had  not 
said  his  all.  But  before  Masters  began  to  speak  again  Car- 
men plucked  Mortimer  by  the  sleeve  and  whispered  a  secono. 
time. 

"Mortimer,  Edmond  is  under  the  trees.    I  am  afraid." 

Mortimer  heard  her  'and  understood  this  time,  but  he 
wondered  whether  Edmond  was  not  following  only  to  be 
able  to  watch  Renee ;  he  was  sorry  for  the  French  boy. 

"There  is  a  common  ground,  but  not  in  men,"  said 
Masters.  "All  men  can  meet  in  God,  and  that  one  truth 
we  have  forgotten.  And  in  this  mad  race  for  futile  knowl- 
edge we  are  not  likely  to  remember  it.  Listen.  Nearly 
three  thousand  years  ago,  in  a  country  of  peasants  called 
Judaea,  in  the  days  when  Assyria  struggled  with  Egypt 
and  they  flayed  their  prisoners  alive,  they  were  nearer  to 
knowledge  than  we.  In  those  days  Judaea  was  the  fighting 
ground  of  the  two  nations;  she  had  been  the  slave  of  the 
one,  and  was  destined  to  be  the  slave  of  the  other.  In  those 
days  war  was  a  struggle  of  extermination ;  nations  were 
destroyed  or  transplanted ;  it  was  not  wrong  for  the  victor 
to  raze  cities  to  the  ground  and  put  men  and  women  to  the 
sword.  Yet  in  those  days  a  prophet  of  Judaea,  the  victim, 


198  THE  OUTSIDER 

said  in  the  name  of  God,  '  And  in  that  day  there  shall  be  a 
highway  out  of  Egypt  to  Assyria,  and  the  Assyrian  shall 
come  in  to  Egypt,  and  the  Egyptian  into  Assyria,  and  the 
Egyptians  shall  serve  with  the  Assyrians.  In  that  day  shall 
Israel  be  the  third  with  Egypt  and  with  Assyria,  even  a 
blessing  in  the  midst  of  the  land ;  whom  the  Lord  of  Hosts 
shall  bless,  saying,  Blessed  be  Egypt,  my  people,  and  As- 
syria the  work  of  my  hands,  and  Israel  mine  inheritance.' 
Where  is  the  prophet  of  Belgium  who  will  say  this  to  Ger- 
many ? ' ' 

He  launched  suddenly  on  a  vein  of  irony. 

' '  Of  course,  things  are  different.  They  always  are.  That 
is  why  religion  grows  slowly;  people  accept  a  Christ  or 
Isaiah  only  when  he  has  lived  ever  so  long  ago,  'And  things 
were  different,  you  know.'  There  is  always  something  ex- 
tenuating in  the  lapse  of  time — it  makes  miracles  more  prob- 
able, and  gives  us  room  for  equivocation.  It  is  false ;  things 
are  not  different.  God  has  not  grown  older  in  the  interim, 
or,  if  He  has  grown  older,  He  has  not  become  cynical,  like 
man.  His  law  still  stands.  Only  in  love  of  Him  will  men 
find  peace  and  understanding.  Then  only  human  problems 
will  cease  to  exist.  If  men  would  forget  each  other  and " 

There  was  a  patter  of  footsteps  and  a  sudden  cry  from 
Carmen.  Both  men  turned.  Mortimer  saw  Edmond,  the 
flash  of  a  knife,  and  heard  two  simultaneous  shouts.  Ed- 
mond and  Masters  were  locked,  the  Frenchman  hissing 
wildly,  his  wiry  body  twisting  as  he  kicked  at  Masters.  Then 
Masters  got  one  hand  free  and  crashed  his  fist  into  Edmond 's 
face.  Edmond  staggered  back,  the  knife  dropping  from  his 
hand. 

"You  dirty  French  swine,"  Masters  rasped,  and  followed 
Edmond  up  with  clenched  fists.  Edmond 's  face  was  dis- 
torted into  madness.  He  made  a  dart  for  the  knife ;  almost 
at  the  same  moment  Masters  kicked  him.  Mortimer  heard 


THE  OUTSIDER  199 

the  boot  crack  dully  on  the  elbow  and  wilted  at  the  sound. 
The  Frenchman  uttered  a  miserable  moan  and  fell. 

All  this  had  passed  in  three  or  four  seconds.  No  one 
beside  their  own  group  was  in  sight,  for  Edmond  had  chosen 
his  moment.  Now,  before  Mortimer  could  interfere,  Mas- 
ters had  thrown  himself,  raging,  on  the  Frenchman,  and 
was  pummeling  him  hysterically.  Mortimer  seized  his  hand 
suddenly.  "Masters!  For  God's  sake." 

"The  b d  wanted  to  knife  me,"  gasped  Masters. 

"I'll  show  him." 

"Come  off,  Masters,  he's  helpless." 

Masters  gave  a  last  vicious  jab  at  the  face  and  rose  to 
his  feet.  His  face  was  pale.  His  eyes  glinted,  half  in  fury, 
half  in  fear. 

Renee  and  Carmen  were  cowering  against  the  stone 
embankment.  Masters  suddenly  took  Renee 's  arm  and  with- 
out another  word  made  off  with  her.  Edmond  sat  up,  one 
hand  on  the  ground,  the  other  at  his  dazed  forehead. 

"The  swine,  the  swine,"  he  repeated  blindly. 

"Mortimer,  let's  leave  him,"  whispered  Carmen. 

Mortimer  waited,  irresolute,  but  Edmond  ignored  him. 
He  was  gabbling  with  rage ;  not  a  word  was  comprehensible. 
Mortimer  could  not  make  up  his  mind  to  leave  him.  In  a 
few  moments  Edmond  subsided. 

"You  ought  to  be  glad  this  ended  as  it  did,  Edmond," 
said  Mortimer. 

The  Frenchman  turned  to  him  a  sullen  face.  "You 
foreigners,"  he  said,  and  spat.  , 

"Come  away,  Mortimer,"  whispered  Carmen. 

"You  foreigners,"  said  Edmond,  "everything's  for  you 
now.  A  Frenchman  is  dirt.  You've  got  the  money." 

Mortimer  shrugged  his  shoulders.  He  was  certain  that 
Renee  had  not  taken  up  with  Masters  for  the  sake  of  money. 


200  THE  OUTSIDER 

Edmond  seemed  suddenly  to  divine  his  thought.  He  burst 
into  a  torrent  of  vehement  language. 

"It  doesn't  matter,  money  or  no  money,  that  damned 
Englishman,  or  you  Americans.  You  come  here  for  a  few 
months,  and  you  make  it  your  business  to  teach  French  girls 
not  to  stay  with  a  man  for  good.  Or  else  you  would  never 
get  a  girl,  eh  ?  Dis  done,  Carmen.  This  American  of  yours ; 
he's  already  told  you  that  he  doesn't  believe  in  constant 
love,  hasn't  he?  He's  told  you  already  that  some  day  he 
will  leave  you  because  marriage  is  a  stupid  thing,  eh  ? " 

Carmen  shrank  from  him  closer  to  Mortimer. 

"I  know  you,"  raged  Edmond.  "A  Frenchman's  a  fool 
to  you  because  he  doesn't  earn  dollars.  He's  got  no  right  to 
a  pretty  girl.  You  thieves!  Who  gave  Paris  girls  their 
name  if  not  you  foreigners  ?  Go  with  him,  Carmen.  He 's 
playing  with  you — but  it  doesn  't  matter.  He 's  got  dollars. ' ' 

Mortimer  looked  at  Carmen.  She  was  afraid  and  dis- 
tressed. 

"Well,  Carmen,  is  he  saying  what's  in  your  mind?" 

"Come  away,  Mortimer,"  she  whispered. 

"You're  as  bad  as  they,"  Edmond  continued,  addressing 
Carmen.  "You're  only  too  .glad.  You've  heard  legends 
of  Americans  marrying  French  girls,  eh?  You  think  it 
might  turn  out  so  just  for  you  ?  Don 't  believe  it.  He  won 't. 
There 's  one  American  in  a  thousand  marries  a  French  girl. 
They  don't  come  to  France  for  that." 

He  stopped,  then,  shaking  his  fist  in  Mortimer's  face, 
"I'll  settle  up  with  one  of  you  foreigners.  I  don't  care 
who  it  is." 

He  perceived  his  knife  on  the  ground,  made  as  if  to  pick 
it  up,  then  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "I'll  use  something 
better  next  time."  He  turned  from  them  and  made  off 
under  the  trees,  nursing  his  shattered  elbow  with  his  hand. 
Mortimer  and  Carmen  stood  still. 


THE  OUTSIDER  201 

"Well,  Carmen,  he  told  the  truth?" 

"He  was  very  angry,  Mortimer.  He  didn't  know  what  he 
was  saying.  I'm  so  afraid  of  him.  He'll  do  you  or  Mon- 
sieur Masters  an  injury." 

"But  he  told  the  truth,  eh?" 

"I  don't  know."  She  shivered.  "I  don't  know.  Let's 
go  home." 

"You  don't  want  to  talk  about  it,  Carmen?" 

"No,  no,  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  it.  Why  should  I  talk 
about  anything  as  long  as  you  are  with  me  ? " 

He  walked  with  her  towards  her  home,  the  old  struggle 
waging  within  him.  Clearly  and  more  clearly  he  saw  that 
no  man  could  be  intimate  with  others  without  plunging  into 
entanglements.  Masters  could  not  take  Renee  just  so.  And 
could  he  take  Carmen  just  so,  and  leave  her  just  so  ? 

"Mortimer."    They  were  nearing  her  home  again. 

"Oui,  petit  Carmen." 

"Don't  worry  about  what  Edmond  said.  He  was  too 
angry  to  know  what  he  was  saying." 

Mortimer  laughed  bitterly.  "What  does  that  matter? 
What  he  said  was  true,  wasn  't  it  ? " 

"Don't  worry  yourself,  Mortimer.  I  never  think  about 
it." 

"As  long  as  I  am  with  you,  eh?" 

"Oui,  I  think  of  nothing  as  long  as  you  are  with  me." 

He  had  not  brutality  enough  to  add — ' '  And  at  the  end  of 
the  month?"  But  he  was  beginning  to  understand  that 
she  was  tacitly  ignoring  this  condition,  and  somehow  he 
himself  did  not  care  to  insist  on  it. 

"Carmen,  you're  cleverer  than  you  know,  and  stronger 
than  you  know.  You  might  win  out  in  the  end,  after  all. ' ' 

She  was  plainly  puzzled  by  this  remark.  ' '  I  don 't  under* 
stand  you,  Mortimer." 

"You  goose.    You  good  little  goose.    That's  just  the  very 


202  THE  OUTSIDER 

reason  why  you're  stronger  and  cleverer  than  you  know." 
She  accepted  this  wild,  meaningless  statement  as  she 
did  his  idiosyncracies.  She  only  held  faster  to  him,  know- 
ing at  any  rate  that  there  was  something  friendly  in  what 
he  said.  Her  chief  emotion  was  joy  in  his  presence.  Yet 
in  the  darker  part  of  her  mind  a  tremulous,  joyous  "Per- 
haps" was  restlessly  awake. 


CHAPTER  X 

TJHERE  were  three  tasks  in  front  of  Mortimer — to  find 
new  quarters,  collect  his  money  from  old  Lessar,  and  get 
additional  work.  He  had  two  hundred  francs  odd  in  his 
pocket.  Lessar 's  work  amounted  to  four  hundred  francs. 
He  determined  to  find  himself  a  mean  room — any  kind  that 
held  a  bed  and  washstand.  More  than  a  hundred  and 
twenty-five  francs  a  month  he  would  not  pay,  but  that 
would  suffice  for  what  he  needed.  Eight  francs  a  day  would 
suffice  for  food  and  extras — two  meals  at  three  francs 
twenty-five  each,  breakfast  for  fifty  centimes,  a  franc  for 
newspapers  and  subway.  In  this  way  he  could  pay  rent 
for  two  months  and  buy  food  for  thirty  days.  The  re- 
mainder would  go  for  laundry,  typing  paper,  and  other 
extras.  Within  those  thirty  days  he  could  surely  earn 
something.  At  any  rate  he  would  be  certain  of  a  room  for 
two  months.  That  was  his  chief  fear — to  be  without  a  room. 
Hunger  and  cold  he  could  bear,  but  to  be  on  the  streets,  to 
sleep  in  a  doorway,  that  was  the  end  of  all  things  to  his 
mind. 

In  the  late  afternoon  of  a  cold  day  he  set  out  for  old 
Lessar 's  apartment,  the  manuscript  under  his  coat.  He 
walked  all  the  way  to  the  rue  Pressbourg,  near  the  fitole, 
to  save  the  six  sous.  And  there  a  sour  concierge  informed 
him  that  Monsieur  Lessar  had  left  for  England,  and  Mon- 
sieur was  requested  to  leave  the  work  and  a  bill  .  .  . 
Mortimer  savagely  scribbled  "four  hundred  francs"  on  a 
scrap  of  paper,  added  his  address  and  went  forth  without  a 
word.  He  walked  homewards  eaten  with  a  dull,  blind  rage. 
Curse  them  all ! 

When  he  reached  his  room  he  tried  to  remain  in  his 

203 


204  THE  OUTSIDER 

chair,  evolving  a  plan.  But  not  an  idea  came  to  him.  He 
counted  his  money  and  then  tried  to  forget  it,  but  his  mind 
returned  bitterly  to  his  condition.  He  was  not  frightened 
in  a  direct  sense.  He  was  wild  with  anger,  and  in  part  afraid 
of  what  he  might  become.  Then,  realising  that  he  was  wast* 
ing  his  time,  he  determined  to  go  in  search  of  a  room — 
some  hole  in  one  of  the  miserable  streets  of  the  Latin  Quar- 
ter or  of  the  Quartier  St.  Antoine,  or  of  the  Montmartre. 
As  he  closed  the  door  of  his  room,  he  decided,  too,  that  he 
would  find  Ezra.  It  would  be  a  relief  only  to  speak  with 
him. 

He  went  down  to  the  bureau  of  the  hotel. 

"Monsieur  Rich  went  away  a  few  days  ago.  He  took  his 
things  with  him  and  did  not  leave  an  address."  This  was 
the  proprietaire 's  bland  reply. 

Mortimer  was  staggered  by  the  information.  Rich  might 
have  told  him  something  about  it  after  all.  He  hesitated, 
then  decided  to  seek  him  at  the  bank.  He  crossed  the  Bou- 
levards to  the  rue  des  Mathurins,  and  at  the  information 
desk  asked  for  Mr.  Rich. 

The  girl  rang  up  Rich's  room  and  then  informed  Morti- 
mer that  four  days  ago  Rich  had  drawn  his  pay  and  had 
not  shown  himself  since.  Mortimer  turned  away,  puzzled 
and  disheartened,  yet  upbraiding  himself  for  the  feeling 
that  Rich  owed  it  to -him  to  come  and  say  goodbye  to  him. 

Somehow,  just  that  afternoon,  he  could  not  bear  his  lone- 
liness. It  was  rare  with  him  to  feel  an  imperative  need  for 
someone.  But  in  his  distress  he  could  not  even  go  in  search 
of  a  room.  He  still  had  two  days,  and  he  loathed  the  task 
of  hunting  his  new  home  in  the  most  miserable  quarters  of 
the  city.  As  a  class,  French  landlords  and  landladies  were 
an  abomination  to  him.  There  was  a  rapacity,  he  thought, 
peculiar  to  them,  a  shamelessness  and  directness  he  could 
not  bear  to  negotiate  with. 


THE  OUTSIDER  205 

Instead  of  setting  out  for  the  Latin  Quarter,  he  walked 
up  and  down  the  Boulevards,  staring  into  shop  windows  and 
examining  the  billheads  of  the  theatres  and  cinemas.  How 
hard  at  work  was  humanity,  every  moment  of  its  existence, 
— how  heartlessly  interested  in  itself!  He  brooded  on  the 
colossal  effort  and  absorption  which  the  buildings,  these 
business  undertakings  represented — just  large  numbers  of 
mean  people,  feverish  in  the  pursuit  of  little  aims. 

In  the  evening  he  wandered  disconsolately  back  towards 
the  "hole. ' '  Supper  did  nothing  to  restore  his  good  spirits ; 
the  best  on  the  menu  that  evening,  according  to  Francois, 
was  roast  beef  and  beans.  The  roast  beef  turned  out  un- 
eatably  stringy,  and  the  beans  stank  of  their  captivity  in  a 
tin  box. 

Mortimer  looked  forward  with  a  longing  that  was  frankly 
painful  to  seeing  Carmen.  He  would  take  her  for  a  walk, 
he  would  tell  her  he  was  miserable,  he  would  let  her  be 
tender  to  him.  She  could  do  whatever  she  liked  with  him 
that  evening.  He  did  not  care  just  then  whether  he  was 
acting  in  line  with  his  plans  or  not.  He  was  miserably 
lonely — he  was  too  tired  to  think. 

After  supper  he  waited  for  Carmen  outside  the  Lapin 
Cuit.  He  knew  she  would  come  from  the  direction  of  the 
Place  de  la  Concorde,  so  he  walked  up  and  down  the  street 
to  intercept  her. 

The  time  for  her  appearance  approached  very  slowly. 
It  was  good  to  him  to  know  that  this  warm  heart  was  hurry- 
ing towards  him,  even  more  impatient  than  he.  He  would 
be  kinder  to  her  than  ever,  this  evening.  He  would  make 
her  happier  than  she  had  ever  been.  It  was  a  keen  pleasure 
to  him  to  anticipate  her  happiness. 

Eight  o'clock  passed  and  there  was  no  sign  of  her.  He 
was  desperately  disappointed.  He  went  as  far  as  the  Place 
de  la  Concorde  and  waited  at  the  exit  of  the  subway.  One, 


206  THE  OUTSIDER 

two  trains  emptied  themselves.  Then  he  went  back  to  the 
Lapin  Cuit,  and  peeped  into  the  interior.  No  Carmen;  he 
had  not  missed  her  at  the  subway  then.  He  continued  pa- 
trolling the  street.  It  was  incredible  that  she  should  not 
come.  It  would  be  intolerable  not  to  see  her. 

When  he  saw  her  turn  into  the  street  his  heart  jumped 
in  him.  He  went  hastily  down  the  ill-lit  street  and  her  face 
broke  into  light  to  see  him.  Before  she  could  greet  him  he 
kissed  her.  She  was  too  astonished  to  return  his  kiss. 

"Oh,  I'm  glad  to  see  you,  Carmen.  Why  are  you  so 
late?" 

"We  had  a  lot  of  work.    I  was  furious." 

He  pressed  her  hands  in  his.    "I'm  glad  you're  here." 

She  looked  up,  too  delighted  to  answer  him. 

"Never  mind  why,  man  petit  Carmen."  Then  he  added 
recklessly,  "It's  because  I'm  beginning  to  love  you." 

She  seized  his  arm,  almost  terrified. 

"Mortimer!" 

"It's  true,"  he  rushed  on.  "I  wanted  all  the  afternoon 
to  see  you  again.  I  could  not  wait  till  evening." 

"Is  it  true?"  she  whispered. 

"  He  checked  himself  and  smiled. 

"Yes,  it's  true,"  he  said,  more  calmly.  "Look,  Carmen. 
Let's  not  go  to  the  Lapin  Cuit  this  evening.  Let's  go  and 
walk.  I  want  to  talk  with  you." 

"Oui,  mon  petit." 

They  set  out  for  his  favorite  walking  place,  the  right 
bank  of  the  river.  Mortimer  had  said  that  he  wanted  to  talk 
with  her,  but  he  maintained  silence  for  a  long  time.  She 
waited,  wondering  what  he  was  going  to  tell  her,  and  afraid, 
from  sheer  hope,  of  the  change  that  was  coming  over  him. 
Mortimer  forgot  that  she  was  waiting  to  hear  him  speak. 
In  reality  he  had  nothing  to  say  to  her  now.  He  only  want- 
ed to  think. 


THE  OUTSIDER  207 

" Mortimer,  what  were  you  going  to  tell  me?" 

' '  That  you  're  a  good  little  girl, ' '  he  answered,  laughing. 

' '  That 's  good— to  begin  with.    And  then  ? ' ' 

' '  What  more  do  you  want  ? ' ' 

"You  love  me? — "  then,  as  he  did  not  answer  at  once, 
she  added  hastily,  "  a  little?" 

"Mais  oui!"  he  said.    "Didn't  I  tell  you  so?" 

"And  what  else?"  she  asked. 

"Later,  later." 

What  was  he  going  to  tell  her?  That  he  had  no  money? 
That  he  was  looking  for  a  cheap  room  ?  Or  that  he  was  a 
fool  and  did  not  know  what  he  was  doing  with  himself  ?  He 
interrupted  himself  to  break  the  circle  of  his  thoughts. 

"Do  you  look  forward  during  the  day  to  seeing  me, 
Carmen?" 

The  question  was  foolish,  but  he  wanted  to  talk  only  for 
her  pleasure. 

"Little  silly,"  she  said,  daringly,  rubbing  her  face  against 
his  shoulder.  "All  day.  I  only  work  to  the  end  of  the  day 
because  I  can  see  you.  I  make  one  bear 's  head  and  I  say, 
'one  gone,  one  nearer  to  Mortimer.'  I  hate  the  first  and 
second  and  third  bears'  heads.  Afterwards  come  the  ninth 
and  tenth  and  eleventh,  and  I  like  them.  They  are  friend- 
ly to  me,  because  they  are  nearer  to  you.  I  forgive  them 
even  for  not  going  as  fast  as  the  first  ones. ' ' 

"And  every  day  you  think  of  the  same  thing?" 

"Not  every  day,  because  I  don't  see  you  every  day." 

She  tried  to  say  this  without  seeming  to  convey  a  re- 
proach. 

"Well,  you  shall  see  me  oftener,  petit  Carmen,"  he  said. 

"Is  it  true?"     She  would  not  believe  him. 

"It  is  true.     Are  you  glad?" 

She  uttered  a  short,  breathless  laugh.  How  shameless 
she  was  in  her  love  of  him !  It  was  still  something  strange 


208  THE  OUTSIDER 

to  Mortimer  to  be  wooed  with  this  naive  overtness.  But 
was  it  as  strange  to  a  woman  to  be  wooed  by  a  man  ?  Or 
did  women  take  it  as  their  due  ? 

"Carmen,  aren't  you  ashamed  -to  court  me  like  this? 
Isn't  it  the  man  who  always  courts  the  woman?"  He  said 
this  teasingly,  not  seriously. 

"Well,  if  you  don't  want  to  do  it,  I  must.  What  do 
you  expect?" 

"You  believe  in  the  equality  of  privilege,  don't  you?" 

She  did  not  understand,  so  began  another  subject. 

"Mortimer,  why  have  you  changed  like  this  since  yester- 
day?" 

"It's  simple,  if  you  only  knew  human  nature.  The  mo- 
ment a  man's  miserable  he  finds  he  needs  the  love  of  a 
women. ' ' 

"Ah,  you  don't  love  me  then." 

"Let  me  finish.  And  .then  the  man,  to  get  the  love  of 
the  woman,  and  to  keep  it  when  he's  got  it,  begins  to  love 
her." 

"Are  you  miserable,  little  Mortimer?" 

"Oh,  not  so  much." 

"Tell  me,  mon  petit.'' 

"It's  nothing,  it's  just  so." 

"And  why  won't  you  tell  me?"  She  pleaded  gently, 
still  afraid  to  ask  too  much. 

"You  won't  understand  it,  Carmen.  Can  a  man  be 
miserable  when  he  has  as  much  as  two  hundred  and  twenty 
francs  in  the  world?" 

She  was  obviously  startled. 

"Is  that  all  you  have,  Mortimer?" 

"All.  And  a  typewriter.  Have  you  ever  had  only  two 
hundred  'and  twenty  francs  in  the  world  ? ' ' 

"I've  never  had  so  much  money  since  I  came  to  Paris. 
But  it  isn't  the  same  thing." 


THE  OUTSIDER  209 

"And  why?" 

"You  have  different  needs  from  mine." 

He  became  almost  angry  at  this  ungrudging  spirit  of 
hers. 

"What  different  needs?  Why?  What  difference  is 
there  between  us?" 

"Ah,  petit  Mortimer,  you  cannot  live  like  me,  in  such  a 
room,  near  such  people,  or  eat  as  I  do.  You  are  a  different 
person." 

"You  are  foolish,  Carmen."  He  took  her  observations 
as  a  merciless,  commentary  on  his  thoughtless  selfishness. 
"Do  you  know  I  must  find  a  room  now  which  won't  co.st 
me  more  than  a  hundred  and  twenty-five  a  month?  Do 
you  know  I  haven't  enpugh  to  pay  a  month's  rent  in  the 
hotel  where  I'm'  staying  now?  And  when  I've  paid  a 
month's  rent  away  I  shall  have  one  hundred  francs  to  live 
on?"  He  tried  hard  to  make  the  details  unpleasant,  but 
he  felt  that  to  the  girl  walking  with  him  such  circumstances 
were  only  the  day's  ordinary  business.  She  had  no  hun- 
dred francs  in  her  pocket  when  the  rent  had  been  paid  up. 

"Mortimer,  won't  Monsieur  Ezra  lend  you  some  money?" 

"He's  gone — heaven  knows  where." 

"That  was  not  gentil  of  him.  Little  Mortimer,  t'en  fais 
pas.  You  will  surely  get  money  soon.  Listen.  I  really, 
truly  believe  that  M.  Blumer  is  going  to  make  me  contre- 
ma/itre.  I  shall  get  more  than  three  hundred  and  fifty 
francs  a  month.  You  know — "  she  hesitated,  not  knowing 
how  to  broach  the  subject. 

"Shut  up,"  he  said,  roughly. 

"We  shall  see,  we  shall  see,"  she  said,  half  to  herself, 
and  smiling  mysteriously. 

"I  must  start  looking  for  a  room,"  he  muttered,  humili- 
ated that  she  should  have  hinted  at  giving  him  money.  The 
very  mention  of  the  possibility  seemed  to  have  contaminated 


210  THE  OUTSIDER 

him  with  the  reality.  "I  suppose  that's  the  way  it  has  to 
begin,"  he  said,  within  himself,  and  felt  an  unworthy  re- 
sentment 'against  Carmen  welling  up  in  him. 

"Mortimer,  do  not  be  sad." 

"I'm  not  sad.  Don't  I  tell  you  I'm  better  off  than  you 
are — and  you're  not  sad." 

"You  will  surely  get  some  money  from  somewhere.  It 
always  happens  like  that.  You  don't  know  where  to  get 
it — and  suddenly  it  comes,  from  someone  you  never  thought 
of." 

Subtle  little  devil,  he  thought  to  himself,  astounded  and 
delighted.  She  is  trying  to  take  back  the  hint  that  she'll 
give  me  money. 

"You  don't  know  how  clever  and  good  you  are,  Car- 
men. ' '  He  came  back  to  the  theme  that  always  puzzled  her. 

"Don't  make  fun  of  me,  please,  Mortimer."  She  was 
hurt. 

He  passed  his  arm  round  her.  "I'm  not,  you  hopeless 
goose.  I  may  finish  up — "  he  was  going  to  add,  "by  really 
falling  in  love  with  you — "  but  felt  a  world  of  implications 
in  the  statement,  so  he  changed  it  to  something  meaningless. 
But  supposing  it  were  to  happen!  Supposing  he  were  to 
find  himself  as  desperately  involved  as — his  mind  hesi- 
tated— as  she  was.  For  the  first  time  it  occurred  to  him 
that  love  cannot  deny  itself  as  simply  as  he  had  expected 
it  in  her.  The  simple  egotism  of  his  attitude  toward  her 
came  like  a  flush  of  shame  over  him.  And  he  was  not  true 
even  to  himself,  for  out  of  cowardice  he  would  not  even 
give  his  own  emotions  a  free  run.  He  was  holding  her  at 
arms'  length,  not  because  he  had  ceased  to  love  her,  but 
because  he  was  afraid  of  letting  himself  love  her.  He 
was  as  false  to  himself  as  to  her.  Was  it  not  clear  that 
there  was  but  one  thing  to  do?  To  love  her  frankly  as 
long  as  he  could,  and  then  take  up  the  theme  of  their 


THE  OUTSIDER  211 

separation, — if  she  had  not  left  him  by  then  of  her  own 
free  will.  The  last  thought  stung  him.  What  if  Carmen 
were  to  say,  on  the  morrow,  "Mortimer,  I  am  leaving  you." 
The  possibility  chilled  him  to  the  heart. 

"Carmen!" 

"What  little  Mortimer?" 

The  voice  carried  infinite  reassurance. 

"Do  you  really  love  me?" 

She  could  not  answer.  "What  do  you  want  me  to  tell 
you?"  she  stammered. 

"Nothing,  goose." 

"Do  not  ask  me  that  again,  Mortimer." 

"I  won't,  goose." 

A  sudden  resolution  halted  him  in  his  walking,  and  his 
mind  danced  at  the  effect  it  would  produce.  No!  He 
would  not  tell  her.  She  should  see ;  and  that  very  evening, 
too. 

"Carmen,  I  must  go  home  to  pack.  Tomorrow  I  must 
move." 

"I'm  coming  with  you,  to  help." 

"You  can  come  with  me,  to  watch." 

They  began  to  walk  back,  Mortimer  setting  a  rapid  pace. 
He  was  smiling  inwardly.  Carmen  should  get  the  surprise 
of  her  life.  He  forgot  his  worries  in  the  contemplation  of 
her  coming  happiness. 

"Faster,  faster,"  he  said,  as  they  walked. 

She  skipped  to  keep  pace  with  him,  and  laughed. 

"But  Mortimer;  you  haven't  a  room  yet." 

"Yes,  yes,  a  friend  of  mine  gave  me  an  address  where 
I  can  get  a  room  cheap." 

He  said  nothing  more  till  his  room  was  reached.  He 
switched  on  the  light.  "Fast,  now,"  he  said.  "I  want 
to  pack  in  twenty  minutes." 

He  did  not  need  as  much  as  that.    He  possessed,  beside 


212  THE  OUTSIDER 

the  clothes  he  had  on,  one  ready-made  suit  of  clothes,  one 
pair  of  shoes  (the  cheapest  obtainable  from  the  Belle  Jardi- 
niere), three  sets  of  light  underwear  (army  stock),  six  pairs 
of  socks  (of  the  same  origin),  a  civilian  overcoat,  a  poncho 
(but  no  civilian  raincoat),  a  dozen  soft  collars,  two 
ties,  a  dozen  khaki  handkerchiefs,  and  a  considerable  quan- 
tity of  shoelaces.  The  last  came  from  a  habit  he  had  con- 
tracted of  never  passing  a  shoelace  vendor  without  buying 
a  pair  at  double  the  price  requested.  It  was  easier  to  him 
to  forego  change  than  to  thrust  his  charity  on  a  person 
who  was  obviously  trying  to  earn  a  living. 

These  possessions  he  bundled  into  a  cheap  valise,  round 
which  he  tied  a  length  of  cord  as  substitute  for  the  de- 
lapidated  lock.  His  books  he  placed  in  the  case  and  slid 
the  wooden  wall  in.  He  was  ready. 

"Wait  here  a  couple  of  minutes,"  he  told  Carmen. 

He  went  down  to  the  bureau. 

"I  am  leaving  your  hotel  tonight,  Monsieur  le  proprie- 
taire,"  he  said. 

"Monsieur  is  leaving  us,  then?" 

"I  still  have  the  right  to  two  nights'  lodging  here,"  went 
on  Mortimer.  "As  I  don't  consider  you  a  gentleman  I 
forbid  you  to  let  the  room  for  these  two  nights,  that  is, 
before  my  term  is  quite  completed.  I  shall  be  here  at  mid- 
night tomorrow  and  the  day  after  tomorrow  to  see  that  my 
room  is  empty.  I  have  your  receipt  for  a  month 's  rent  in 
my  pocket  in  support  of  my  rights.  Bonjour,  monsieur. 

He  went  out  to  the  rue  Eoyale  and  came  back  to  the  hotel 
in  a  taxi.  He  then  went  up  with  the  chauffeur  to  bring 
down  the  book-case,  which  needed  careful  handling.  Then 
he  carried  down  his  typewriter,  and  Carmen  followed  with 
the  valise. 

He  gave  instructions  to  the  chauffeur  in  a  tone  inaudible 
to  Carmen.  He  wanted  to  watch  the  effect  on  her. 


THE  OUTSIDER  213 

In  the  dusk  Carmen  seemed  to  be  paying  no  attention  to 
the  direction  the  taxi  was  taking.  She  knew  they  crossed 
the  river,  but  no'  idea  was  further  from  her  mind  than  the 
truth.  Mortimer,  his  heart  beating  curiously  in  anticipa- 
tion of  the  moment  she  would  understand,  maintained  a 
ceaseless  chatter. 

"Tu  sa.is,  Carmen,  all  is  not  as  bad  as  it  seems.  I'm 
going  to  buy  myself  a  mandoline  and  a  portfolio  of  popu- 
lar songs,  and  gather  a  crowd  round  as  I  've  seen  others  do. 
Will  you  come  with  me  in  the  evenings  to  sell  the  songs 
for  me?  You  don't  believe  me?  I  was  the  champion 
nigger  banjoist  -at  College.  You  don't  like  this  metier ? 
We'll  join  the  Salvation  Army.  You  don 't  like  that  either? 
We'll  open  an  ice-cream  soda  stand  for  Americans  opposite 
the  Place  de  1'Opera,  and  you  can  dance  in  an  Hawaiian 
costume.  They'll  take  your  French  for  Hawaiian,  on  ac- 
count of  your.  Breton  accent." 

Carmen  laughed  continuously  at  his  nonsense,  under- 
standing about  half  of  it. 

Suddenly  as  they  passed  into  the  Avenue  de  la  Tour 
Maubourg,  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  subway  station  and 
the  name  printed  on  it.  She  started,  and  a  look  of  almost 
terro.r  flashed  into  her  eyes. 

"Mortimer,  where  are  we  going?" 

He  ignored  her  question,  but  his  voice  quivered  with  sup- 
pressed joy  as  he  continued  chattering. 

"Or  else  I'll  borrow  some  of  your  clothes  and  get  a  job 
as  a-  female  attendant  at  a  cinema.  Or  you'll  give  me  a 
job  making  teddy  bears'  heads  when  you're  contremaitre 
and  Monsier  Blumer  will  not  examine  me  too  closely." 

Carmen  did  not  hear  him.  In  a  piteous  bewilderment 
she  sta.red  firs^  at  the  window  and  then  at  Mortimer.  The 
taxi  was  travelling  swiftly  in  the  direction  of  the  Ecole 
Militaire. 


214  THE  OUTSIDER 

"Mortimer,  I  beg  you.     Tell  me  where  you  are  going." 

He  seized  her  arm  and  continued  hilariously. 

"Or  else  I'll  become  a  member  of  the  Chambre  des 
Deputes  and  enact  a  law  giving  all  penniless  Americans  in 
Paris  a  pension  of  a  thousand  francs  a  month  of  which  you 
shall  have  three  hundred  and  fifty." 

The  taxi  turned  twice  in  rapid  succession,  and  entered 
the  passage  Bobillot.  Carmen  held  her  hand  to  her  face 
and  stared  wildly  at  Mortimer.  The  taxi  drew  up  in  front 
of  her  hotel. 

"Mortimer,  I  implore  you,  do  not  make  fun  of  me."  Her 
voice  trembled  as  if  she  were  about  to  cry.  "Mortimer, 
are  you  going  to " 

' '  Come  on,  come  on, ' '  he  answered  with  pretended  rough- 
ness. "Not  so  many  questions.  Take  rny  valise  up  to 
your  room,  while  I  bring  the  typewriter."  Then,  as  slie 
remained  stonestill,  he  began  to  thrust  her  from  the  taxi. 

She  stumbled  out,  took  the  valise  which  he  pushed  at 
her,  and  remained  there.  He  took  the  typewriter  from  the 
interior  of  the  taxi,  and  shouldered  her  in  front  of  him. 
"Hurry  up,  hurry  up,  that  taxi  keeps  adding  ten  centimes 
bits  while  you  're  standing  here  like  a — like  a  fish. ' ' 

She  turned  a  wildly  radiant  face  to  him — and  ran  with 
the  valise  before  him.  "Wait,  I'll  get  the  key." 

She  was  back  in  a  moment.  Mortimer's  heart  was  con- 
tracted at  her  poignant  happiness.  Without  a  word  she 
went  in,  in  front  of  him,  and  opened  the  door.  In  the 
room  she  waited  till  he  had  put  his  machine  down,  and 
then  threw  her  arms  round  him. 

"Mortimer,  mon  petit  Mortimer,  I  will  make  you  happy. 
I  will,  you'll  see."  Her  cheek,  pressed  against  his,  was  wet. 
He  shook  her  roughly,  lest  he  should  show  his  own  plea- 
sure too  openly,  and  then  tore  himself  away  from  her  to 
bring  the  book-case  up.  When  he  returned,  the  lamp  was 


THE  OUTSIDER  215 

lit.  Carmen  had  moved  her  table  into  the  one  free  corner, 
by  the  clothes  pegs. 

"Put  your  book-case  on  that,"  she  said. 

Mortimer  nodded.  Then  he  dismissed  the  chauffeur, 
and  surveyed  the  room.  ' '  Good  idea, ' '  he  said,  looking  at 
the  book-case  in  the  Conner.  "Looks  quite  cosy." 

"I  knew  it  would,"  said  Carmen,  her  hand  on  his  shoul- 
der. 

He  looked  down  at  her.  "You  wicked  little  devil ;  you've 
had  it  all  thought  out  in  advance!" 

"Bien  sur.    Weeks  ago,"  she  confessed  triumphantly. 

"And  "now  we  can  arrange- things.  Have  you  thought 
out  a  place  for  my  clothes?" 

"Mais  oui,  mais  oui,"  she  replied.  "And  Madame  Lebi- 
han  promised  me  an  extra  little  table  for  your  typewriter, 
too.  And  I  Ve  got  three  empty  shelves  in  my  arnroire  for 
your  things.  And  I  Ve  got  some  shoulders  for  your  clothes. 
Vas!  You'll  be  cosier  here  than  you  were  in  your  hotel." 

"You're  all  in  the  conspiracy,"  he-  said,  with  mock  de- 
spair. Then,  suddenly,  "How  much  will  you  have  to  pay 
for  the  room  now  I'm  here." 

"The  same,"  she  answered  hastily. 

"You  lie." 

'"Eh  bien,  it  isn't  your  business." 

"Oh?  We'll  see.  I'm  going  downstairs  to  see  Madame 
Lebihan. ' ' 

"Mortimer,  please." 

"Oh,  rubbish!"  He  went  out  suddenly,  she  after  him. 

He  found  Madame  Lebihan  as  radiant  as  Carmen. 

"Ah,  Monsieur  Mortimer;  how  glad  I  'am  you've  made 
up  your  mind." 

"Are  you,  indeed?" 

"Yes,  for  Carmen's  sake." 


216  THE  OUTSIDER 

Carmen  made  no  comment  on  Madame 's  vicarious  frank- 
ness. 

"Madame,  will  you  please  tell  me  what  that  room  costs 
for  both  of  us?" 

"Certainly;  one  hundred  and  fifty  francs  a  month.  But 
Carmen  used  to  pay  by  the  week." 

Mortimer  understood  that  Carmen  would  never  dare  to 
hint  to  Madame  Lebihan  of  the  state  of  his  finances,  fear- 
ing thereby  to  humiliate  him.  That  was  why,  as  he  guessed, 
she  stood  by  tongue-tied  as  he  took  out  two  one  hundred 
franc  notes  and  tendered  them  to  Madame  Lebihan. 

"That's  for  the  coming  month,"  he  said. 

She  handed  him  back  fifty  francs.  "Now  please  excuse 
me  that  I  can't  stay  any  longer,  Madame.  I  must  arrange 
my  affairs." 

In  the  room  Carmen  began  to  reproach  him  timidly. 

"Mortimer,  you  are  not  a  bit  reasonable.  Voyons.  You 
must  not  pay  this.  You  may  not  pay  more  than  half, 
then.  It  is  not  juste.  And  why  did  you  give  her  for  a 
month?  Almost  nobody  does  that  in  this  hotel." 

"Quiet,  you  insect!"  he  said,  sternly. 

"Mortimer,  I  shall  give  you  back  half.  Only  I  must  do 
it  at  the  end  of  every  week." 

"Quiet!"  he  thundered. 

She  shrank  from  his  anger  then,  as  he  laughed  uproar- 
iously, she  too  smiled,  and  ran  into  his  arms. 

"You'll  see,  Mortimer,  everything  will  be  alright." 

"Absolutely,"  he  said,  gravely.  You'll  be  contre- 
maitre  from  next  week  on,  and  our  worries  will  be  at  an 
end.  And  now  let's  unpack  and  put  our  things  away." 

He  opened  the  valise  and  took  out  his  effects,  watching 
Carmen  slyly.  He  could  have  sworn  she  was  gloating  over 
the  prospect  of  stockings  to  darn  and  buttons  to  sew. 
"You're  hopeless,"  he  sighed  to  himself. 


THE  OUTSIDER  217 

The  lamplight  was  none  to  brilliant.  The  corners  of 
the  room  were  dim,  but  gradually  he  began  to  see  them 
clearly.  He  laid  out  his  clothes  in  the  armoire  after  his 
usual  system,  shirts,  collars,  ties  and  handkerchiefs  on  the 
top  shelf,  underwear  and  socks  on  the  second  shelf  and 
linen  for  the  laundry  on  the  third.  Then  he  hung  his 
suit  and  overcoat  and  poncho  on  the  pegs  behind  the  cur- 
tain and  placed  the  extra  pair  of  shoes  in  the  corner  near 
them,  and  the  shoe  brush  and  polish  by  their  side. 

"Fini,"  he  said. 

He  thought  the  room  was  really  charming,  especially 
with  the  book-shelf  in  the  corner.  He  was  at  ease  there, 
as  though  he  had  lived  in  the  room  for  weeks. 

"All  we  need  now,"  he  said,  "is  a  fire  in  the  grate,  and 
Madame  Lebihan's  extra  table.  Carmen,  give  this  twenty 
francs  to  Madame  for  wood — snow  do  as  /  tell  you — and  ask 
her  to  bring  up  her  little  table.  Wait  a  minute.  You  can 
also  ask  her  to  get  us  a  bottle  of  St.  Emilion — say  half  a 
bottle  to  placate  your  scruples.  And  bring  up  a  couple  of 
glasses.  Here 's  another  five  francs.  Hurry  up  now. ' '  He 
bustled  her  from  the  room  to  stifle  her  protestations. 

He  did  not  care  to  think.  He  was  happy — with  a  couple 
of  slight,  nagging  provisos  at  the  back  of  his  head.  He 
had  thirty-five  francs  in  his  pocket — and  Carmen  had  had 
her  way.  He  determined  that  this  evening  these  provisos 
would  remain  as  far  at  the  back  of  his  head  as  he  could 
keep  them. 

When  his  work  was  done  the  fire  was  burning  briskly. 
The  bottle  of  red  wine  and  two  glasses  stood  on  the  table. 
He  brought  Sinbad  le  Mar  In  from  the  book-case  and  opened 
it  in  the  lamplight.  Then  he  drew  Carmen's  chair  to  the 
side  of  his  own  and  passed  his  arm  round  her  shoulder. 
His  fingers  played  with  her  ear  as  he  began  to  read  aloud 
to  her: 


218  THE  OUTSIDER 

"Having  inherited  much  wealth  from  my  family  I 
squandered  the  better  part  thereof  in  the  follies  of  youth, 
and  meditating  one  day,  I  reflected  that  riches  were  but 
passing  things  if  one  husbanded  them  as  badly  as  I  had 
done  .  .  ." 

Of  course  neither  of  them  had  mentioned  the  month  of 
grace. 


CHAPTER  XI 

A  FOOLISH  and  futile  morning  passed  in  a  search  for  a 
job  amongst  American  houses  in  Paris.  These  are  scat- 
tered in  the  Quartier  de  1'Opera,  on  the  Avenue  de  1'Opera, 
along  the  Boulevards  and  towards  the  Gare  St.  Lazare. 
But  nine-tenths  of  the  people  who  interviewed  him  were 
not  American,  but  French  or  English,  and  a  certain  an- 
tagonism against  an  American  looking  for  a  job  so  far 
from  his  home  when  so  many  Frenchmen  needed  one,  made 
most  of  the  interviews  brief  and  unpleasant. 

At  noon,  more  dispirited  -than  hungry,  he  determined  to 
make  a  lunch  of  chocolate  and  croissants,  as  he  had  seen 
so  many  working  girls  do.  This  need  not  cost  him  more 
than  a  franc;  and  for  this  purpose  he  went  to  the  Lapin 
Cuit,  where  he  would  be  certain  of  getting  a  tastable  amount 
of  sugar  in  his  chocolate. 

At  that  hour  the  Lapin  Cuit  was  practically  deserted. 
Mortimer  wedged  himself  morosely  into  a  corner  of  the 
empty  room  and  stared  at  the  chilly  mirrors.  He  could 
not  bring  himself  easily  to  call  for  Marius;  his  first  lunch 
of  chocolate  and  bread  was  to  him  something  in  the  nature 
of  a  horrible  initiation,  a  symbol  of  degradation  and  inca- 
pacity. Had  any  other  motive  than  economy  called  for 
this  light  lunch  he  would  have  wasted  no  thought  on  it. 
As  it  was  he  spoiled  it  in  advance  by  meditations  of  what 
it  meant.  Two  or  three  times  an  almost  irrestible  impulse 
seized  him  to  leave  the  place  and  take  his  usual  lunch  at  the 
"Hole,"  for  three  francs  twenty-five,  and  every  time  he  set 
his  teeth  and  held  himself  down  grimly.  ' '  One  must  make 
a  beginning,"  he  said;  with  thirty  francs  in  one's  pocket 

219 


220  THE  OUTSIDER 

one  could  not  afford  more  than  one  restaurant  meal  a  day 
—if  that. 

Marius  came  into  the  room  at  last,  before  he  was  called. 
Mortimer  gave  his  order  with  an  attempt  at  blitheness, 
trying  hard  to  imply  by  his  tone  of  voice  that  he  had  either 
only  just  got  up  or  that  he  had  no  appetite,  or  that  this 
happened  to  be  a  whim  of  his.  Despite  his  contempt  at  his 
own  anxiety,  he  wondered  painfully  whether  Marius 
guessed  at  his  condition,  or  not.  His  natural  intelligence 
told  him  that  probably  Marius  had  not  wasted  a  single 
thought  on  him;  only  a  stupid  sensitiveness  made  him 
suffer. 

At  about  one  o'clock  the  Lapin  Cuit  began  to  fill.  These 
noon  frequenters  were  ordinary  customers  who  came  for 
an  appetiser  or  a  plain  coffee  because  it  was  close  to  their 
atelier;  in  the  evening  they  took  their  meals  at  home  and 
patronized  their  regular  cafe  of  their  quarter.  At  midday 
the  Lapin  Cuit  had  none  of  the  club  characteristics  of  the 
evening.  As  a  rule  its  real  habitues  avoided  it  at  that 
time  of  day. 

Mortimer -was  about  to  leave  when  he  saw  Fulson  come 
in  at  a  side  door.  Under  ordinary  circumstances  he  would 
have  nodded  'and  passed  out,  but  it  occurred  to  him  that 
Fulson  was  the  very  man  who  might  give  him  a  line  or 
two.  He  did  not  like  the  idea  of  getting  help  from  Fulson, 
because  he  was  the  kind  of  man  who  patronised  when  he 
gave  advice.  But  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  went 
over  to  the  other's  table. 

He  plunged  direct  into  his  subject. 

"Fulson,  I'm  looking  for  a  job." 

Fulson  nodded  his  head  wisely,  as  if  to  say,  "I  knew 
you'd  come  to  that." 

"I  mean  right  now.  Any  kind  of  a  job.  I'm  pretty 
well  down  and  out." 


THE  OUTSIDER  221 

"Yah,"  said  Fulson,  gravely,  aud  nodding  his  head 
again.  "What  kind  of  a  job  could  you  handle?" 

"What  about  an  interpreter's  job?  I  know  French  and 
German  and  English." 

Fulson  shook  his  head.  "German '11  be  no  use  here  for 
years  yet.  English  ain't  enough.  You  need  Spanish  and 
Swedish  and  Portuguese,  with  English.  Say,  you  don't 
care  what  kind  of  a  job  you  get  ? ' ' 

:'No.  I've  cleaned  stables  in  the  army — they  put  me  on 
mule-skinning  nearly  twice  a  week,  and  I  did  it  without 
extra  pay.  So  I  guess  I  can  do  it  for  pay  now." 

"I'll  put  you  on  to  something  better  than  that,"  said 
Fulson,  slowly.  On  the  table  lay  a  flat  parcel  done  up 
in  brown  paper.  Fulson  unfolded  this  and  disclosed  ten 
or  twelve  original  water  color  paintings,  in  various  sizes. 
"See  these?" 

Mortimer  examined  them.  They  were  simple  and  cheaply 
effective.  A  few  sea-scapes  in  three  or  four  colors,  and 
two  country  scenes,  white  and  red  cottages  embowered  in 
green,  in  reality  obvious  variations  of  two  themes ;  only  the 
sails  and  the  waves  and  the  trees  were  differently  placed 
in  the  different  drawings.  With  a  little  practice  a  medi- 
ocre dauber  could  turn  out  fifteen  such  cliches  in  one  work- 
ing day. 

"I  was  on  this  game  for  a  while,"  said  Fulson.  "You 
go  into  any  big  hotel  where  there  are  lots  of  Americans — 
any  of  them — the  Imperial,  or  the  Bristol,  or  the  Neuchatel, 
and  you  place  two  or  three  of  these  paintings  on  a  table 
in  the  visitor's  room  and  stand  up  near  'em.  Then  an 
American — most  often  a  lady — comes  up  and  looks  at  'em. 
Don't  show  more  than  two  or  three  at  a  time — they  look 
too  much  alike.  You  tell  her  you  want  to  sell  'em — they're 
you're  last  You  tell  her,  if  she  looks  likely,  that  if  shell 
buy  one  you'll  put  your  name  on  it,  though  you  hate  to 


222  THE  OUTSIDER 

do  that,  because  it  isn't  your  best  work,  and  you  never  in- 
tended to  sell  it.  That's  what  generally  makes  'em  buy, 
when  they  see  you  put  your  name  to  it.  Of  course,  you 
tell  a  tale  in  between  while  you  're  talking — young  American 
trying  to  learn  painting  in  Paris — no  money,  and  all  that 
kind  of  stuff.  It  isn't  bad  dope.  You  offer  to  sell  a  small 
one  at  twenty  francs.  Some  of  'em  '11  give  you  more,  but 
they're  mostly  cheap  skates;  they've  got  a  bug  that  it's 
a  great  thing  to  pick  up  a  real  painting  from  some  poor 
starving  lartist" — Fulson 's  voice  took  on  indignation — 
' '  and  pay  him  next  to  nothing  for  it.  Then  they  go  home 
and  tell  their  friends — 'That  painting?  It's  an  original, 
with  the  signature.  I  got  it  for  three  dollars  or  so. '  Ha  ? ' ' 

Mortimer  nodded,  smiling.  Fulson  did  seem  to  have 
some  perception,  after  all. 

"But  they're  awful  stuff,  Fulson." 

"Naw."    Fulson  was  almost  hurt.    "They're  cute." 

"I  suppose  the  average  American  has  as  much  idea  of 
real  art  as  you  have." 

' '  Sure, ' '  said  Fulson,  not  quite  understanding.  ' '  They  're 
all  no  wiser  than  you  or  me.  Look's  alright  in  a  frame — " 
he  held  a  drawing  at  arm's  length.  "You  can  sell  four 
or  five  in  a  day.  You  could  sell  more,  but  some  of  them 
pikers  want  a  long  story  for  their  money.  That's  what 
spoils  it." 

Mortimer  nodded  and  sighed. 

"Now,"  said  Fulson,  "What  d'ye  say?" 

Mortimer  brooded. 

1 '  You  can  make  your  thirty  francs  a  day, ' '  said  Fulson. 
' '  Sell  four  of  'em  at  ten  francs  profit  and  you  '11  make  forty. 
Sometimes  you'll  have  to  tip  the  attendant  in  the  waiting- 
room." 

Mortimer  still  brooded,  disgusted  and  amused  at  his  own 
scruples. 


THE  OUTSIDER  22:5 

"Look  here,"  said  Fulson,  with  sudden  virtuousness. 
' '  You  're  an  American,  same  as  me.  1 11  let  you  have  three 
or  four  and  you  can  pay  me  when  you've  sold  'em.  What 
d'ye  say?" 

Mortimer  nodded  with  an  effort. 

"That's  the  stuff,"  said  Fulson,  slapping  him  on  the 
shoulder.  "Of  course,  you  understand,  I've  got  to  buy 
these  myself." 

"Sure,"  said  Mortimer,  watching  the  slyness  that  had 
come  over  the  other's  face. 

"And  it  took  me  a  long  time  to  find  the  birds  who  do 
this  kind  of  work  for  me.  You  get  that?" 

"Sure." 

"Now,  I'll  let  you  have  these  small  drawings  for  fifteen 
francs  each  'and  these  for  twenty  and  these  for  twenty-five. 
You  sell  'em  like  pie.  You  ought  to  make  more'n  ten 
francs  on  a  drawing,  you." 

"Why  more  than  you?"  asked  Mortimer,  perceiving  nev- 
ertheless that  Fulson  imposing  even  on  Americans  as  an 
artist  would,  after  all,  find  a  limited  audience. 

"Why  ?     Because  you  talk  as  if  you  were  a  gentleman — 
Fulson  did  not  mean  to  be  offensive — "and  I  don't.     Be- 
sides, I've  got  so  used  to  telling  the  tale  that  I  can't  put 
any  more  pep  into  it." 

Mortimer  thought  a  while.  "Won't  they  recognise  the 
work?" 

"No.  I  used  to  sell  fires  'and  night  views  before.  Dif- 
ferent feller.  And  anyway,  it's  a  month  since  I  did  it, 
and  the  Americans  in  the  big  hotels  are  all  changed  by 
now. ' ' 

In  the  street  Mortimer  was  overtaken  by  an  irrational 
hilariousness.  He  recalled  the  conversation  with  Ezra 
when  he  had  asked  by  what  stages  a  man  descends  to  the 
sandwich  boards  and  a  woman  to  the  dustbin.  Here  per- 


224  THE  OUTSIDER 

haps  was  the  first  of  these  stages — to  be  the  employee  of  a 
man  like  Fulson. 

He  walked  rapidly  to  the  rue  Castiglione  and,  lest  his 
beating  heart  should  get  the  better  of  him,  plunged  with 
hasty  steps  into  the  Imperial.  The  page-boys  at  the  outer 
door  raised  their  hats  to  him  as  he  passed. 

The  great,  gilded  lounge,  with  its  voluminous  leather 
chairs  and  massive  tables,  was  half -filled  with  idlers,  most 
of  them  recognisable  as  Americans.  Why  did  Americans 
in  a  European  hotel  seem  to  swagger  so,  even  when  they 
sat  still?  From  the  door  of  the  lounge  he  marked  a  va- 
cant table.  At  the  nearest  table  to  its  right  sat  a  lean 
American  in  the  midst,  apparently,  of  his  family.  The 
wife  was  middle  west,  Mortimer  assumed;  she  had  the  fa- 
miliar plump,  obstinate  face,  half  kindly,  half  narrow, 
which  he  associated  by  instinct  with  a  spotless  household, 
Sunday  School,  a  shrewish  tongue,  and  the  insufferable 
boredom  of  the  Middle  West  home.  Two  girls  sat  primly 
opposite  the  father. 

It  was  hard  for  Mortimer  not  to  grin  at  himself  as  he 
undid  his  parcel  and  laid  two  drawings  on  the  table.  What 
next?  After  a  moment  of  hesitation  he  put  his  back  to 
the  wall  and  concentrated  in  a  gloomy  stare  at  the  two 
drawings,  doing  his  best  to  restrain  the  twitching  at  his 
lips. 

Nothing  happened.  He  just  stood  there  until  he  forgot 
himself,  until  his  thoughts  were  a  thousand  miles  from  his 
pictures.  The  lounge  was  warm,  and  cosy  even  in  its  hid- 
eousness.  His  mind  fell  into  a  long  doze,  though  his  eyes 
were  automatically  glued  on  the  table.  He  thought  of 
Ezra,  and  of  the  evening  they  both  got  drunk  with  Odette 
and  Juliette ;  he  thought  of  Carmen  and  her  happiness  and 
of  the  quiet  evening  they  had  spent  together. 

He  awoke  when  the  bait  took.     The  plump  Middle  West 


THE  OUTSIDER  225 

lady  had  paused  and  was  staring  at  the  pictures,  her  lor- 
gnon  raised  with  dignity  to  her  pointed  nose.  The  lenses 
of  the  lorgnon,  Mortimer  noted  idly,  were  of  plain  glass. 

"Look,  Eddy."  Her  lean  husband  came  back  a  few 
steps.  ' '  Ain  't  these  little  pictures  cute  ? ' ' 

Her  husband  picked  one  up.  "Hand  painted,"  he  said 
sternly.  "Real." 

"Fancy  now!  Say  vortrer  perntewerf "  She  addressed 
Mortimer,  suddenly  aware  of  the  fact  that  these  pictures 
belonged  to  someone,  probably  that  young  fellow  who  was 
watching  her.  "Eddy,  put  that  picture  down." 

"Yes,  it's  mine,  Madam,"  said  Mortimer  gravely. 

"Oh,  you  speak  English,  too.  Fancy  now.  And  it's 
you're  picture.  Isn't  that  real  nice." 

"Very  nice,  Madam,  very  nice,"  almost  said  Mortimer, 
but  he  said  nothing. 

"And  are  you  a  Frenchman?"  she  asked,  as  if  assailed 
by  suspicions. 

"No,  Madam,  I'm  an  American." 

"Fancy  now!  And  you  paint  pictures."  She  uttered 
another  invocation  to  the  spirit  of  imagination,  quite  au- 
tomatically, and  then  seemed  at  a  loss  for  further  conver- 
sation. Mortimer's  silence  seemed  to  weigh  on  her. 

"Very  nice  occupation,"  she  commented,  after  long  and 
confused  thought. 

"Very  nice."    Mortimer  said  it  this  time. 

"Yes,"  she  agreed.  "Nice  day."  And  she  hurried  on 
after  her  husband. 

Mortimer  was  overcome  with  indignation.  Miserable 
impertinence!  What  did  the  silly  woman  mean  by  wast- 
ing his  time  and  energy  in  that  way?  He  looked  round 
the  room.  Nobody  seemed  to  be  taking  any  notice  of  him. 
He  fell  into  reverie  again.  On  two  occasions  someone 
passed  his  table,  looked  at  his  pictures,  and  seeing  him, 


226  THE  OUTSIDER 

hastened  on  uneasily,   fearing  commercial   complications. 

He  became  aware  that  an  hour  or  so  had  passed,  and 
with  it  the  contented  feeling  in  his  stomach.  He  was 
bored.  He  regretted  that  he  had  not  brought  a  book  with 
him,  then  decided  he  would  never  take  one  with  him,  lest 
his  attention  be  distracted  from  business. 

A  fourth  prospect  came  up  without  warning,  two  Ameri- 
can ladies,  loud-voiced  and  heavy  of  step. 

"Say,  Bertha,  here's  some  drawings." 

"Don't  speak  to  me  of  drawings.  Today  was  my  third 
day  at  the  Loover,  and  my  note-book's  chock  full.  I  don't 
know  when  on  earth  I'll  finish  them,  or  when  I'll  ever 
read  my  notes." 

They  did  stop,  however,  two  very  ordinary  looking 
women,  unbecomingly  dressed.  Bertha  was  a  friendly 
heavy-weight,  with  a  tired  look  on  her  face. 

"My  husband  said  to  me,"  continued  Bertha,  while  her 
friend  picked  up  a  picture,  "he  said,  'I've  brought  you 
to  Paris  now,  and  you've  got  to  do  all  the  art  stuff.  I'm 
only  a  business  man, '  he  said,  '  and  I  've  got  no  time  for  it. 
But  you  're  a  lady, '  he  said,  '  and  every  day  you  go  and  see 
and  study  those  beautiful  pictures.  There's  thousands  of 
them  in  Paris, '  he  said,  '  the  greatest  pictures  in  the  world. ' 
And  let  me  tell  you,  he  was  sure  right.  There's  hundreds 
of  thousands.  'We'll  be  here  two  weeks,'  my  husband  said, 
'and  you've  got  to  see  everyone  of  those  pictures.'  It's 
some  job,  I'll  tell  the  world."  She  sighed. 

"But  this  is  an  original  painting,"  said  her  friend. 
"Done  by  the  artist  himself." 

"Quite  right,  madam,"  said  Mortimer,  anxious  to  as- 
sert himself  this  time. 

' '  Oh,  they  're  your  pictures ! ' '  The  tired  Bertha  woke  up 
again.  An  inspiration  revealed  her  superior  understand- 
ing. "And  I  guess  you  want  to  sell  them." 


THE  OUTSIDER  227 

"Yes,  madam,  I  must  sell  them." 

''Must  you  really!"  Her  voice  was  touched  with  com- 
miseration. "And  you're  an  American." 

"I  am."  Mortimer  became  optimistic.  What  an  intel- 
ligent woman! 

"You're  studying  art  in  Paris,"  said  Bertha's  friend 
sympathetically.  "Aren't  you  now?"  She  looked  mean- 
ingly at  Bertha,  as  to  say, — or  at  least,  so  thought  Morti- 
mer,— "We  must  buy  a  picture." 

"Did  you  paint  these?"  asked  Bertha,  incredulously. 
She  had  never  met  anybody  who  did  that  kind  of  thing. 
She  resembled  those  people  who  think  all  great  sayings  are 
only  quotations,  no  mortal  ever  having  been  capable  of 
originating  such  wisdom. 

"I'll  put  my  signature  on  it, — if  you'll  buy  it,"  said 
Mortimer,  with  a  terrific  effort.  His  throat  was  dry  after 
such  a  statement. 

"That's  real  lovely,"  exclaimed  Bertha,  then  artlessly 
raised  a  point  of  information.  "Why  won't  you  put  it 
on  if  I  don't  buy  it." 

Mortimer  was  baffled.    ' '  Why  ? "  he  stammered. 

"Don't  you  understand,  Bertha?"  said  her  friend,  ag- 
grieved. "He  won't  do  it  just  like  that." 

"I  love  art,  you  know,"  said  Bertha,  inconsequentially 
but  earnestly,  and  addressing  Mortimer.  ' '  I  was  only  just 
now  telling  my  friend  how  I  would  see  every  painting  in 
Paris,  now  I  was  here  at  last.  And  I  will." 

"As 'an  artist  I  admire  your  determination,"  said  Morti- 
mer stoutly. 

"  I  Ve  always  loved  pictures,  ever  since  I  was  such  a  tiny 
child,"  said  Bertha,  with  a  touch  of  pathos.  "I'd  have 
loved  to  be  an  artist.  I'm  sure  I  could  have  been  one. 
My  mother  always  used  to  say,  'if  only  our  little  Bertha 
could  go  to  Europe  and  study  art.'  And  my  husband  al- 


228  THE  OUTSIDER 

ways  leaves  it  to  me  to  look  at  pictures  and  statchoos. 
He  knows  I  know. ' ' 

Mortimer  grew  restive.  The  business  in  hand  should 
have  been  the  discussion  of  his  art  career,  not  of  Bertha's. 
But  Bertha  must  have  her  say ;  she  had  it,  to  the  complete 
exclusion  of  Mortimer  and  of  her  friend.  Mortimer  won- 
dered whether  she  would  buy  the  picture  or  not.  That 
was  the  point,  after  all.  So  he  did  not  interrupt.  He 
waited  grimly.  He  did  not  hear  what  Bertha  was  saying; 
he  was  torturing  himself  with  the  price ;  should  he  ask  for 
twenty-five  francs  for  the  small  one?  Or  be  content  with 
twenty?  Or  should  he  dare  to  ask  for  thirty?  He  was 
dizzied  by  the  mere  contemplation  of  such  impudence. 

"And  now  you're  forced  to  sell  your  drawings  instead 
of  putting  them  in  an  exhibition,"  emerged  Bertha.  "It 
must  be  very  hard  to  study  art  in  Paris,  and  the  language 
so  strange,  too,  though  it  isn't  so  hard  for  some  people  as  it 
is  for  others.  I  picked  it  up  quite  easy.  You  have  to 
be  so  patient  to  study  art — years  and  years  in  a  garret. 
I  know.  Are  you  ever  going  to  go  back  to  America?" 

The  conversation  drifted  again  from  commerce  to  biog- 
raphy. Mortimer  resigned  himself.  After  all,  the  longer 
she  talked,  the  more  difficult  it  would  be  for  her  to  retire 
decently  without  buying  a  picture.  Then  Bertha  asked 
him  to  sit  down,  and  she  'and  her  friend  sat  down,  and  she 
told  him  she  thought  his  tenacity  noble,  and  that  it  would 
be  rewarded  fittingly  in  the  end.  She  told  him  that  her 
husband  would  come  back  from  his  business  rounds  by 
six,  and  she  had  plenty  of  time  to  talk  with  him — and  it 
was  about  four  o'clock  when  she  made  this  statement.  But 
the  conversation  was  prolonged  to  a  point  where  the  possi- 
bility of  a  sale  was  forgotten.  Bertha  brought  out  her 
note-book  and  read  the  catalogue  to  Mortimer,  and  it  was 
four-thirty  before  he  could  decide  to  force  the  issue. 


THE  OUTSIDER  229 

"I  must  go,"  he  said,  taking  her  off  her  guard.  "Mad- 
am, I  would  like  you  to  buy  one  of  my  drawings. ' ' 

"Why,  of  course  I  will.  I'll  buy  both.  Tell  me  what 
you  want  for  them." 

Her  abrupt  acceptance  cut  the  ground  from  under  Morti- 
mer. Without  thinking  he  blurted  out  ''Fifty  francs," 
and,  despite  a  conscious  contempt  for  Bertha,  he  blushed 
fiercely;  he  could  have  said  sixty  or  seventy  just  as  easily. 

Bertha  bought  the  pictures  and  paid  for  them,  too.  But 
leavetaking  Mortimer  found  harder  than  making  a  sale. 
He  listened  to  an  infinitude  of  words ;  her  energy  and  self- 
assurance  were  limitless.  Mortimer  stared  despairingly 
at  the  clock.  Five  came.  He  wondered  whether  he  should 
stick  it  out  now  until  the  husband  released  him ;  but  realis- 
ing that  the  husband,  far  from  releasing  him,  might  even 
invite  him  to  a  drink,  he  invoked  Ezra's  brazen  ease  of 
manner,  and  when  Bertha  reached  one  of  her  rare  periods, 
said  vigorously,  "Madam,  I  must  go.  Goodnight.  Thank 
you." 

Both  women  shook  hands  with  him.  Released  from  them, 
he  swung  back  to  a  buoyant  good  humor.  He  almost  hug- 
ged himself  with  amusement  in  the  street.  Had  'anybody 
dreamed  of  this  way  of  making  a  living  ?  Here  were  fifteen 
francs  earned.  Who  said  he  would  have  to  starve  ? 

His  despair  of  the  morning  had  vanished  like  mist  in 
strong  sunlight.  His  secret  soul  was  tickled  with  laughter 
and  optimism.  If  he  did  this  kind  of  thing  twice  a  day — 
thirty  francs  a  day,  twenty-four  days  a  month,  seven  hun- 
dred and  twenty  francs — this  was  more  than  a  competence. 
He  wanted  to  see  Carmen,  tell  her  about  it,  laugh  it  over 
with  her. 

It  was  a  little  after  five;  he  was  dry  and  hungry,  and 
his  mind  debated  between  a  meal  and  a  second  venture. 


230  THE  OUTSIDER 

The  mercenary  instinct  won.  Perhaps  he  would  reach  his 
thirty  francs  the  first  day. 

With  more  assurance  he  went  into  the  Bristol,  three  min- 
utes walk  from  the  Imperial.  Circumstances  were  less  fa- 
vorable here.  The  lounge  of  the  Bristol  is  divided  into 
three  parts.  In  any  of  these  he  would  be  invisible  to  the 
majority  of  the  guests.  He  chose  his  position  carefully  at 
the  table  on  which  lay  the  largest  number  of  American  and 
English  papers.  This  time  he  exhibited  two  large  pictures, 
about  fourteen  inches  by  nine. 

Prospects  were  slow  in  the  Bristol.  A  couple  of  French- 
men looked  carelessly  at  the  pictures  and  then  at  him, 
and  one  of  them  made  a  contemptuous  remark  which 
brought  the  color  into  Mortimer's  face,  as  though  he  had 
indeed  been  the  painter  of  them.  The  observation  rankled 
and  destroyed  his  peace  of  mind.  He  took  no  notice  of 
others  that  passed.  He  was  sorry  he  had  not  retorted  on  the 
supercilious  Frenchman,  though  he  would  have  been  hard 
put  to  it  to  find  an  intelligent  retort. 

He  tried  to  forget  it ;  of  course  this  stupid  metier  would 
not  always  be  such  simple  sailing.  He  would  meet  one  or 
two  clever  people  now  and  again,  and  a  good  many  mean 
ones. 

An  hour  passed  in  the  Bristol.  His  hunger  became  ag- 
gressive and  his  mood  vicious.  He  was  actively  annoyed 
with  the  countless  people  wrho  ignored  him,  as  if  deliber- 
ately. He  watched  with  eager  eyes  an  American  lady  of  the 
likeliest  sort  hesitating  at  the  entrance ;  she  came  halfway 
into  the  lounge,  actually  looked  at  him,  and  then,  remem- 
bering something,  went  back.  He  was  convinced  that  her 
faulty  memory  had  cost  him  ten  or  fifteen  francs.  Fool  of 
a  woman! 

His  reveries  cheated  his  hunger  a  while,  but  at  half -past 
six  he  gave  up  his  second  attempt.  Doubtless  there  were 


THE  OUTSIDER  231 

good  and  bad  days  for  different  hotels.     This  was  a  bad 
one  for  the  Bristol. 

He  packed  up  and  went  for  supper  to  the  ' '  Hole. ' '  Now 
he  was  neither  elated  nor  depressed.  He  was  unmoved.  He 
treated  himself  to  a  good  supper,  beginning  with  half  a 
dozen  oysters  that  were  quite  palatable,  and  filling  up  with 
a  Chateaubriand  and  frites.  His  bill  came  to  five  francs. 
He  would  walk  home,  he  decided  as  a  last  economy.  The 
day  had  cost  him  eight  francs.  A  day 's  rent  was  five  francs. 
He  was  two  francs  to  the  good.  On  the  way  home  he  stopped 
at  a  sweets  shop  on  the  Avenue  de  la  Motte  Picquet,  and 
spent  the  two  francs  on  dragees  for  Carmen. 


CHAPTER  XII 

A  WEEK  passed  in  this  new  occupation.  The  novelty  and 
absurdity  of  it  disappeared  with  the  first  days.  There  re- 
mained the  tedium  and  the  baseness  of  it.  Mortimer  had 
listed  about  twenty-five  hotels  where  Americans  could  be 
found  in  sufficient  number  to  justify  an  attempt.  In  the 
week  he  exhausted  nearly  all  of  them.  Within  ten  days  he 
would  have  to  return  to  the  Imperial. 

Waiting  aimlessly  in  hotels  became  a  habit,  then  changed 
to  a  kind  of  horrible  destiny.  He  sickened  of  the  lounges, 
with  their  cheap  physical  comfort,  their  vacuity,  their  ser- 
vile attractiveness.  And  how  slowly  the  purchasers  came ! 
He  began  to  hate  them  for  disturbing  the  profound  moods 
of  bitterness  into  which  he  fell.  If  they  did  not  come  at 
all  he  would  be  justified  in  giving  up  this  job. 

The  evenings  were  a  haven  to  him  that  week ;  the  lamp- 
light, the  books,  his  pipe.  And  Carmen  waiting  to  be  spoken 
to,  to  be  read  to.  She  had  begun  to  overhaul  his  linen,  darn 
his  socks,  patch  his  underwear.  At  first  she  had  done  it  in 
secret.  Later  she  worked  on  them  openly,  in  his  presence, 
and  laughed  into  his  face  when  he  looked  his  disapproval. 

Even  successful  days,  when  he  made  as  much  as  thirty 
francs,  were  unhappy.  He  had  not  known  how  silly  was 
the  average  human  being.  The  eternal  squeak  of  surprise, 
"And  you're  an  American  studying  art  in  Paris!"  irri- 
tated him.  The  joke  of  the  situation  having  early  evapor- 
ated, he  found  a  mortal  tedium  in  these  people.  More  than 
once  a  man  or  woman  with  an  elementary  understanding  of 
pictures  looked  at  him  with  more  pity  that  disapproval. 
This  was  the  hardest  to  bear.  To  one  man  he  said,  "Of 
course  it's  rubbish.  D'ye  expect  me  to  sell  Corots  for 


THE  OUTSIDER  233 

twenty  francs?"  But  the  majority  of  such  people  did  not 
enter  into  conversation  with  him.  And  he  could  not  open 
a  conversation  to  justify  himself  against  a  look. 

Early  in  the  second  week  of  his  career  as  picture  peddlar 
he  returned  with  Carmen  to  the  Lapin  Cuit.  He  more  than 
suspected  that  Carmen  had  been  impatient  for  this  event, 
although  in  her  happiness  she  had  never  dared  to  suggest 
it.  In  this  case,  as  in  other  things,  she  had  waited  for  him. 
But  she  was  more  than  usually  gay  on  the  way  to  the  Lapin 
Cuit.  She  was  nursing  a  triumph  in  advance ;  she  was  tast- 
ing the  joy  of  showing  him  off,  at  last  a  complete  acquisi- 
tion. He  was  accustoming  himself  to  yield  to  her  pleasures. 
And  he  forgave  her  this  one  in  advance. 

But  Carmen's  triumph  was  incomplete,  for  with  Ezra 
Mado  had  disappeared.  There  was  no  sign  at  the  Hotel 
Picault,  where  she  had  stayed  with  Ezra;  there  was  not  a 
word  at  the  "Hole,"  or  at  the  Lapin  Cuit.  It  was,  to 
Mortimer  at  least,  a  moral  certainty  that  she  was  no  longer 
with  Ezra;  and  perhaps  that  was  her  reason  for  avoiding 
the  Lapin  Cuit  and  Carmen.  But  Carmen  found  triumph 
enough ;  that  evening  there  was  full  company ;  Masters  and 
Renee,  Fulson,  Maxie,  Gorman  and  Mrs.  Cray,  and  Teddy. 
She  would  have  liked  to  tell  all  "See,  I  am  happy  at  last" 
— and  if  she  did  not  say  it  in  words,  her  face  spoke  as 
clearly. 

Only  to  Mortimer  there  was  a  reaction  from  content. 
The  Lapin  Cuit  was  dingier  than  he  had  ever  thought  it; 
its  habitues  looked  meaner  and  coarser.  Masters,  unprotest- 
ing  under  Renee 's  tireless  demonstrations  of  affection,  had  a 
futile,  seedy  look  about  him ;  the  others  were  frankly  abom- 
inable, Mrs.  Cray  sprawling  heavily  over  Gorman  every 
time  she  bent  to  whisper  to  him,  Maxie,  square-jawed  and 
brutal — though  there  was  something  dapper  in  his  trained 


234  THE  OUTSIDER 

brutality — and,  most  odious  of  all,  Fulson,  with  his  oiled 
hair,  his  rings,  his  thick  lips,  his  greasy  complacency. 

And  he  was  of  them.  Their  meanness,  their  shabbiness, 
was  his  own.  He  was  as  futile  as  they,  and  as  ungracious 
in  his  futility.  And  how  they  seemed  to  know  it.  There 
was  an  offensive  camaraderie  that  linked  them  to  him.  They 
spoke  to  him  carelessly  now,  base  language,  base  thoughts, 
as  though  they  expected  the  same  from  him. 

He  knew  that  in  this  descent  there  was  something  grati- 
fying to  Carmen,  though  she  herself  knew  it  not.  She  was 
more  confident  with  him  that  evening  than  ever  before. 
Her  voice  was  firmer,  and  she  interrupted  him  freely.  She 
laughed  once  or  twice  in  a  way  that  chilled  him.  He  felt 
a  stronger  Carmen  developing  from  moment  to  moment,  a 
Carmen  that  was  proprietorial  and  undiffident.  She  kissed 
him  in  front  of  the  others,  and  he  did  not  protest. 

"That's  a  cute  kid  of  yours,"  said  Fulson,  who  sat  near 
them. 

"Yes,"  said  Mortimer. 

Fulson  looked  overt  and  careless  approval  at  Carmen. 
"You  don't  mind  my  saying  so?" 

"Not  a  bit." 

Fulson  was  greasily  genial.  "I  know  something  good 
when  I  see  it,"  he  explained.  "There's  all  kinds  of  girls  in 
Paris,  and  you've  got  to  know 'em.  There's  some  it's  good 
to  have  when  you've  got  lots  of  dough,  and  some  it's  good 
to  have  when  you're  down  and  out.  There's  no  girl  good 
for  both.  When  you've  got  the  dough  you  want  a  swell 
Jane  that  can  dance  and  doll-up  and  make  the  other  guys 
stare  at  you.  See*  But  the  kid  that's  good  to  you  when 
you're  cleaned  out — like  that  kid  of  yours — wouldn't  know 
how  to  manage  herself  with  money." 

"The  'kid'  happens  to  understand  English,"  said  Mor- 
timer with  an  attempt  at  irony. 


THE  OUTSIDER  235 

"Oh,  I  ain't  saying  anything.  I  know  she  likes  you  and 
she's  a  good  kid.  Everyone  here  says  so,  n'est-ce  pas,  Car- 
men?" 

Carmen  nodded,  knowing  a  compliment  was  afoot,  but 
Mortimer  raged  inwardly;  he  was  kept  silent  because  Car- 
men had  nodded,  and  because  he  did  not  know  what  he 
could  rebutt  in  Fulson's  manner. 

"Long  and  me  are  good  pals,  Carmen,"  said  Fulson,  who 
was  warm  with  drink,  and  he  winked  at  her.  "I  put  Long 
on  to  a  good  thing,  didn't  I,  Long?" 

"Cut  it  out,"  said  Mortimer,  viciously.  Fulson  leaned 
over  and  slapped  him  on  the  knee  "That's  alright,  that's 
alright,"  he  assured  him. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  room  Gorman  and  Mrs.  Cray  were 
drinking  freely.  Under  the  table  she  was  squeezing  his  foot. 
Gorman  was  flushed,  his  blond  hair  falling  over  his  brow. 
Mortimer  was  repelled.  He  wondered  how  soon  Carmen 
would  treat  him  as  Mrs.  Cray  was  treating  Gorman. 

"That's  a  dirty  shame,"  said  Maxie,  quietly,  following 
Mortimer's  eyes. 

Mortimer  shrugged  his  shoulders.    ' '  Why  that  ? ' ' 

"Why  ?  Because  she's  got  a  husband  and  he's  American. 

And  she's  no  French  w e  to  behave  like  that.  If  that 

feller  wasn't  an  American  I  would  have  interfered  before 
this." 

"It's  nothing  to  do  with  him,"  answered  Mortimer, 
frowning.  "She's  hanging  on  to  him  like  glue." 

He  bit  his  lip ;  so  he  had  taken  to  talking  of  others.  It 
was  middle- west  neighbor  blood  coming  out;  a  piece  of 
scandal — don't  let  it  rot  itself  away;  rake  it  about;  make 
a  stink. 

"Nothing  to  do  with  him,  Hell,"  asserted  Maxie.  "He's 
a  man,  isn't  he ?  He  ought  to  know  that  no  white  man  does 
that  to  an  American's  wife." 


236  THE  OUTSIDER 

Mortimer  dropped  the  conversation,  disgusted  with  his 
part  in  it. 

"Oui,  it's  shameful,"  Carmen  took  it  up. 

"Shut  up,  Carmen,"  he  said,  brusquely. 

"You're  right,"  said  Fulson,  from  the  other  side. 

Parts  of  the  conversation  must  have  reached  the  op- 
posite side  of  the  room,  though  neither  of  the  pair  seemed 
to  heed  it.  "Though  old  Cray  isn't  the  kind  of  man  to 
worry  his  head  off,"  added  Fulson. 

"Old  Cray's  a  damned  good  feller,"  said  Maxie,  vigor- 
ously. ' '  Only  he  drinks,  that 's  all. ' ' 

"Oh,  sure,  he  ain't  a  bad  feller,"  agreed  Fulson,  anx- 
iously. "But  he  sure  does  histe  the  booze." 

"That's  no  reason  for  his  wife  to  make  a  damn  fool  of 
him  before  a  bunch  of  Frenchmen,"  said  Maxie.  "Why 
don't  he  go  somewhere  else  with  her?" 

Mortimer  avoided  speech,  but  the  look  on  his  face  pro- 
voked Maxie. 

"You  think  it's  right,  do  you?"  he  asked. 

"It's  none  of  my  business,"  said  Mortimer. 

""Well,  it's  my  business  if  it's  none  of  yours.  And  I'll 
tell  that  long-legged  slob — that's  what  he  is — to  quit  that 
stuff  in  this  place. ' ' 

"That's  the  right  dope,  Maxie,"  said  Fulson,  who  for 
some  reason  was  toadying  to  the  boxer.  ' '  He  oughter  take 
her  out  of  here. ' ' 

"Well,  go  and  tell  him,"  said  Maxie,  looking  round  on 
Fulson  contemptuously. 

Fulson  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  'Taint  my  business 
neither.  But  what's  right's  right." 

Eddy  left  the  cafe  and  with  him  a  couple  of  strangers, 
and,  soon  after,  Fulson  and  Maxie.  Gorman  and  Mrs.  Cray 
remained  with  Mortimer  and  Carmen.  At  the  end  of  a 


THE  OUTSIDER  237 

drink  Gorman  called  across,  "Say,  Long,  come  over  here 
with  the  kid  and  have  something  on  me. ' ' 

Mortimer  shook  his  head. 

"Come  on,  come  on,"  said  Gorman,  in  friendly  remon- 
strance. "You  got  the  blues.  Bring  him  over,  Miss  Car- 
men." 

Mortimer  rose  and  joined  them.  Mrs.  Cray  drew  Carmen 
to  her  and  put  her  arm  round  her. 

"Make  it  four  Cura$aos,"  said  Gorman  to  Marius. 
"How's  the  game,  Long?" 

Mortimer  made  a  gesture  of  indifference. 

"Are  you  in  need  of  dough?"  asked  Gorman. 

"Not  yet,"  said  Mortimer.  He  had  spent  that  week 
exactly  what  he  had  earned,  and  the  thirty  odd  francs  of 
the  previous  week  were  still  in  his  pocket. 

* '  You  've  only  got  to  say  the  word,  Long, ' '  said  Gorman. 
"A  pal's  a  pal,  and  you  did  me  one  good  turn." 

' '  You  needn  't  be  ashamed,  Long, ' '  said  Mrs.  Cray  noisily. 
"My  boy  means  it." 

"You  be  quiet,"  said  Gorman. 

"You  shut  up,"  she  answered  brutally,  and  stopped  his 
mouth  with  a  kiss.  "You're  a  pal  of  my  boy's,  Long,  and 
a  pal  of  his  is  a  pal  of  mine.  You  're  both  pals  of  mine,  you 
and  your  kid,  eh  ?  "  She  put  her  arm  round  Carmen.  ' '  I 
heard  what  that  boxer  said.  He's  just  dirt.  He's  got  the 
needle  because  I  wouldn't  take  any  monkey  business  from 
him.  He's  a  fine  feller  to  talk." 

She  burst  into  a  long,  unclean  anecdote  about  Maxie.  "I 
know  him,"  she  wound  up.  "He'd  pinch  any  man's  girl 
just  for  meanness.  He'd  pinch  yours,  Long.  Keep  away 
from  him." 

"Boxer  or  no  boxer,"  said  Gorman,  intensely,  "I'll 
smash  that  feller  one  evening." 

* '  D  'ye  think  he  doesn  't  go  every  evening  and  tell  Jimmy 


238  THE  OUTSIDER 

— that's  my  husband — that  he's  seen  me  here  with  my  boy 
— "  she  lingered  over  the  last  two  words  with  sickening  uuc- 
tuousness.  "And  Jimmy 'd  eome  here  if  he  wasn't  always 
blind  drunk." 

"I'll  smash  him.  And  that  feller  Fulson,  too,"  said 
Gorman,  viciously. 

"You'd  better  keep  your  hands  off  him  till  he  begins," 
said  Mrs.  Cray,  vigorously.  "And  if  ever  he  does  begin 
I'll  scratch  his  blasted  eyes  out." 

"I  know  you  got  something  to  do  with  Fulson,  Long," 
said  Gorman,  "but  that's  something  else.  You  can't  help 
that,  I  guess  you  got  to  make  a  living.  You're  always  a 
friend  of  mine.  But  I'll  sure  do  that  feller  somet'n 
wicked. ' ' 

"Sure.  Long's  a  pal  of  yours,"  said  Mrs.  Cray,  laying 
a  hand  on  Mortimer's  arm.  "You're  with  us,  ain't  you, 
Long." 

Mortimer  withdrew  his  hand,  silent. 

Gorman  leaned  towards  Mortimer  and  spoke  in  a  low 
voice. 

"Look  here,  Long.  You  remember  what  I  said  to  you 
one  night  ?  Now  I  'm  a  straight  guy,  Long.  I  meant  it  and 
I  mean  it  now.  I  make  more  than  a  thousand  francs  on 
that  stuff  every  week.  And  I  can  get  kilos  and  kilos  of  it. 
If  you  say  the  word  I'll  put  you  wise  to  it.  I  don't  want 
any  profit,  Long.  I'm  not  like  that  dirty  swine,  Fulson. 
It's  only  to  help  an  American  boy  along." 

Mortimer  shook  his  head. 

"It's  very  decent  of  you,  Gorman.  I'll  know  where  to 
come  when  I'm  up  against  it." 

"You're  damn  right,  you'll  know  where  to  come,"  struck 
in  Mrs.  Cray.  "My  boy's  a  true  pal,  aincher,  Osky?" 

Gorman  grinned  down  at  her.    "You  be  quiet,"  he  said. 

"Listen,  Long,"  said  Mrs.  Cray,  turning  her  fleshy  face 


THE  OUTSIDER  239 

on  him,  "you  come  in  with  us  two.  "We're  making  the 
spondulicks.  Why  should  your  kid  have  to  go  to  work,  eh  ? 
You  come  with  us,  and  she  can  buy  herself  a  swell  fur  coat 
and  go  to  the  Bal  Tabarin  and  to  sweller  places  'n  that 
every  evening.  Now  you're  a  good  boy,  Long.  You're 
straight  and  you're  a  gen'lman.  Any  fool  can  see  that  with 
half  an  eye.  And  you're  with  us,  arencher?  You're  not 
against  us.  Us  four  '11  knock  the  guts  out  of  ten  Maxies  and 
Fulsons  and  Jimmies,  won't  we,  Carmen  dear?" 

Gorman  understood  enough  to  sense  Mortimer's  distress. 

"Take  no  notice  of  her,  Long,"  he  said  tolerantly,  and 
winking  at  Mrs.  Cray.  "She  means  well." 

Mrs.  Cray  would  not  have  it. 

"Why,  you  bloody  Yankeedoodle, "  she  said  to  Gorman 
in  mock  offense,  "you  think  I  don't  matter,  eh?  Who  sold 
that  last  double  box  of " 

"Nix  on  that,"  snapped  Gorman,  with  quick  anger. 

"Last  box  of  batteries, — "  continued  Mrs.  Cray,  chang- 
ing her  voice  to  a  wheedle  and  clinging  to  Gorman.  "My 
boy  ain't  angry  wiv  me,  are  he?" 

1 '  Good  night, ' '  said  Mortimer,  standing  up.  ' '  Come  on, 
Carmen.  It's  late." 

He  walked  in  savage  silence  for  some  fifteen  minutes.  He 
was  angry  with  Carmen,  and  angry  with  himself,  but  he 
could  not  tell  exactly  wherein  Carmen  had  merited  his 
anger.  He  could  not  tell,  though  even  there,  in  the  lamp- 
lit  street,  the  subtle  offense  still  clung  to  her.  Who  was 
she  ?  What  did  she  want  of  him  ?  Why  was  she  beginning 
to  possess  him  ? 

She  interrupted  his  thoughts.  ' '  I  don't  like  Mrs.  Cray. ' ' 
She  said. 

"Why?" 

"I  don't  know." 

She  is  trying  to  flatter  me,  thought  Mortimer,  and  looked 


240  THE  OUTSIDER 

down  at  her.  She  felt  something  wrong,  and  held  his  arm 
closer,  as  if  in  supplication.  Only  now  d:d  she  begin  to 
understand  that  her  behavior  had  not  been  all  that  it 
should  have  been.  The  self-confidence  of  the  cafe  hours 
disappeared  again,  now  she  was  alone  with  Mortimer.  Her 
timidity  returned,  and  an  uneasy  fear  of  herself. 

"Don't  be  angry  with  me,  little  Mortimer,"  she  whis- 
pered, in  frightened  contrition.  "We  will  not  go  to  the 
Lapin  Cuit  again." 

Even  this  angered  him.  "So  she  feels  that  she  has  hu- 
miliated me, ' '  he  thought.  And  he  said : 

"Yes,  we  will  go  to  the  Lapin  Cuit.  You  wanted  to  go 
there,  and  you  will. ' '  For  now  arose  in  him  a  savage  desire 
to  push  his  humiliation  to  its  limit,  to  go  down  as  far  as  he 
could. 

Business  that  week  pursued  a  disastrous  course.  A  mean 
fatality  hunted  with  him  from  hotel  to  hotel,  till  he  worked 
without  hope  and  then  without  a  care.  He  seemed  to  know 
in  advance  that  a  hotel  would  yield  him  nothing,  but  he 
went  in,  bitterly  acquiescent,  and  waited,  waited,  waited  in 
the  lounges,  watched  the  throngs,  brutally  indifferent,  drift- 
ing this  way  and  that  along  the  corridors,  talking  among 
themselves  without  a  thought  for  him. 

Between  the  hotels  he  walked  over  half  Paris.  He  was 
bewildered,  amongst  the  pitiless  crowds,  by  the  knowledge 
that  every  individual  was  earning  a  living.  How  did  so 
many  people  get  jobs?  Did  they  care  whether  their  work 
was  productive  or  unproductive  as  long  as  it  brought  in 
money?  Or  were  they  all  as  discontented  in  their  work 
as  he  ? 

But  most  he  was  bewildered  by  the  gigantic  business 
buildings  that  made  up  the  great  boulevards.  He  dragged 
himself  wearily  under  the  shadow  of  tremendous  banks,  in- 
surance houses,  trust  companies,  vast  enterprises  that  lived 


THE  OUTSIDER  241 

on — what?  On  shadow,  on  mere  calculation.  They  coined 
wealth  not  out  of  the  creation  of  things,  not  even  out  of 
the  handling  of  created  things,  but  out  of  the  chimera  of 
ideas.  Mere  ledgers  and  reports  produced  wealth;  mar- 
vellous creatures!  He  watched  in  a  dumb  stupidity  the 
keen,  brutal  men  that  rushed  in  and  out  of  the  great  doors. 
How  did  men  get  access  to  these  houses  of  sinister  magic  ? 
Were  these  ordinary  men,  without  thoughts,  and  fears  and 
restless  calculations,  like  himself?  Never.  They  were  de- 
scended from  a  different  type  of  ape. 

He  had  never  had  money  in  a  bank.  He  never  would  have. 
Only  two  kinds  of  people  had  money  in  a  bank;  little, 
timid,  laborious  worms,  that  crept  with  a  tiny,  cheap  cer- 
tainty from  day  to  day,  saved  here  a  centime,  there  a  sou, 
then,  at  the  end  of  the  month,  scurried  gleefully  and  trem- 
blingly to  the  bank  and  deposited  their  savings,  and  so  on, 
year  in,  year  out.  And  the  other,  the  swift,  loud-voiced, 
brutal,  people,  the  mysterious  jugglers  with  figures,  the 
shadow-wizards.  And  he  was  not  of  either  kind.  He  could 
only  drag  himself  from  hotel  to  hotel,  and  go  into  the  lounge, 
and  unpack  the  pictures,  and  lay  them  on  the  table,  and 
wait,  and  wait,  and  feel  hungry. 

And  what  would  be  the  end  ?  He  did  not  know.  It  did 
not  matter.  What  was  the  end  of  everybody,  in  bank  and 
out  of  bank  ?  There  was  no  end ;  it  went  on  rushing  along 
the  streets,  along  the  years,  along  the  lives,  without  change. 
And  all  were  alike  in  the  foam  of  this  movement ;  part  of  it, 
great  bubbles,  small  bubbles, — but  bubbles  did  not  matter; 
they  came  and  went,  tiny,  unnoticed  ones,  pompous,  colored 
ones ;  they  rose  and  they  burst.  But  the  foam  was  eternal, 
and  the  noise  of  it  was  continuous  and  uniform,  a  long, 
subdued,  bitter  sibilation,  in  which  no  individual  sound 
was  heard. 

Silly,  little  excited  bubbles !    Jostling  each  other  eagerly, 


242  THE  OUTSIDER 

and  hurrying  on  so  anxiously;  jealous,  intolerant,  gleeful 
in  their  progress — plop !  plop !  plop !  plop !  bursting  incess- 
antly, thousands  of  them,  thousands  of  them — rushing, 
rushing,  rushing.  The  sound  and  the  movement  dazed  him, 
till  he  walked  as  in  a  trance,  seeing  not  human  faces,  but 
a  cataract  of  pale  bubbles,  dashing  onwards  against  him. 

The  evenings,  unhappy  as  they  were,  brought  him  sanity 
again.  In  the  evening,  at  home,  he  was  conscious  again  of 
his  weariness,  of  his  limbs,  unmercifully  numb.  He  became 
aware  of  the  fact  that  his  shoes  were  in  bad  shape,  and 
needed  resoling.  Tant  pis.  They  would  wait.  Carmen's 
gentle,  matter  of  fact  presence  restored  him  to  a  bitter 
normality.  And  he  would  forget  himself  in  rest,  in  read- 
ing, in  talking  with  Carmen. 

He  was  glad  that  she  did  not  know  what  passed  through 
his  mind  during  the  day.  He  encouraged  her  to  tell  him 
of  the  day's  events.  He  perceived  in  her  a  healthy  touch 
of  vulgarity;  she  was  beginning  to  accept  him  in  the  day's 
business.  So  much  the  better,  he  thought  at  times.  She  at 
least  should  be  an  ordinary  human  being,  if  he  could  not. 

But  on  the  last  evening  of  the  week  he  arranged  that, 
instead  of  returning  home,  he  should  meet  Carmen  after 
supper  at  the  Lapin  Cuit.  In  a  mood  of  loneliness  some- 
thing in  Carmen  had  irritated  him,  and  he  wanted  to  break 
the  monotony  of  her  possessiveness. 

When  he  arrived  Carmen  was  there,  but  not  Masters, 
whom  he  had  most  wanted  to  find.  Gorman  and  Mrs.  Cray 
were  there,  and  Fulson.  Mortimer  and  Carmen  sat  in  their 
usual  corner,  not  far  from  Fulson.  The  latter  understood 
now  that  on  evenings  Mortimer  did  not  particularly  desire 
his  company,  so  he  sat  alone,  waiting  for  Maxie,  and  brood- 
ing over  a  vague  resentment  against  Mortimer. 

Later  Maxie  came  in,  scowled  at  Gorman  and  Mrs.  Cray, 
and  sat  down  with  Fulson.  Gorman  looked  in  evil  temper 


THE  OUTSIDER  243 

th's  evening.  He  spoke  in  a  low  voice  to  Mrs.  Cray, 
and  from  the  voice  alone  it  could  be  noted  that  the  words 
were  savage  and  distinct.  He  exchanged  looks  with  Maxie, 
long,  steely  looks,  in  which  one  man  weighed  the  other  as 
a  fighter.  There  was  trouble  in  the  air ;  Carmen  felt  it  and 
she  became  silent  and  distressed.  Fulson  felt  it,  and  an  un- 
easy grin  of  anticipation  came  from  time  to  time  into  his 
face.  Mrs.  Cray  spoke  earnestly  to  Gorman,  trying,  Morti- 
mer believed,  to  pursuade  him  to  leave  the  cafe. 

Suddenly  a  quick  gesture  of  Carmen's  took  his  attention 
from  the  book  he  was  reading.  "Mortimer,  look!"  He 
raised  his  eyes  to  the  door,  and  started.  A  dazzling  woman 
had  just  come  in,  and,  with  a  long,  sneering  smile,  was  tak- 
ing the  room  in.  "Mado!" 

It  was  Mado,  with  a  startling  difference ;  Mado  in  costly 
black  furs,  with  a  broad,  shining  hat  at  an  angle  overshadow- 
ing her  brow,  with  an  exquisite  umbrella  in  one  hand,  and 
in  the  other  a  beaded  braid  bag,  gold  and  silver.  Two  rings 
flashed  from  the  fingers  of  her  right  hand. 

Her  eyes  came  to  Mortimer  and  Carmen,  and  the  sneer 
on  her  face,  mingled  with  frank  enjoyment,  was  more  acute. 

"Good  evening,  Messieurs  et  Dames,"  and  she  curtsied 
round.  Mortimer  stared  long  at  her.  He  had  not  known 
she  was  so  pretty;  her  pale,  plump  little  face,  with  the 
dimples  near  the  corners  of  the  lips,  was  set  off  like  tinged 
ivory  against  the  dark  furs.  The  lips  were  painted,  but 
their  form  was  exquisite.  Just  now  she  was  enjoying  her- 
self immensely. 

She  made  the  most  of  the  long  pause.  Then,  as  looks  were 
moved  from  her,  she  went  over  to  the  table  next  to  Morti- 
mer— Maxie  and  Fulson  sat  there — and  dropped  elegantly 
into  a  chair. 

"£a  va,  Carmen?"  she  asked,  with  a  mean  patronage  in 
her  tone. 


244  THE  OUTSIDER 

"Ga  va,"  said  Carmen,  quietly.  But  she  did  not  ask, 
"Et  toif"  Mado  ignored  the  omission.  Fulson,  at  the 
same  table,  was  gloating  over  her.  He  was  awake. 

' '  Always  the  same  with  you,  ah  ? "  said  Mado,  the  sneer 
coming  back  into  her  face.  The  insult  was  meant  for  Mor- 
timer, but  he  scarcely  noticed  it. 

"Oui,'  said  Carmen,  afraid  of  Mado. 

"Well,  it's  changed  with  me,"  said  Mado,  and  twirled 
the  silk  tassel  of  the  umbrella.  "It's  changed  with  me.  I 
look  better  than  I  used  to,  don't  I?  Say  Mortimer,  you 
don't  want  to  speak  to  me?" 

Mortimer  smiled. 

"You  haven't  spoken  to  me  yet,  Mado." 

"Not  that  I  care  a  fig  whether  you — or  anyone  like  you — 
speaks  to  me  or  doesn  't  speak  to  me. ' ' 

"Mado!"  cried  Carmen. 

Mortimer  laughed  heartily.  "Be  quiet,  Carmen.  She's 
having  a  good  time. ' ' 

"And  why  not?"  asked  Mado.  "Must  I  forever  be  the 
friend  of  a  penniless  foreigner,  who  leaves  you — comme  ga 
— when  he  feels  like  it?" 

Carmen  shuddered.  "Mado,  be  quiet!"  she  cried,  for 
Mado  was  speaking  at  Mortimer. 

' '  Why  should  I  shut  up  ? "  asked  Mado,  working  her  tri- 
umph. ' '  What  has  it  to  do  with  you  what  I  say  of — Ezra  ? ' ' 

Carmen  rushed  to  explain.  "O,  I  thought  you  meant — " 
and  she  stopped,  terrified  at  her  own  stupidity.  Mado 
burst  into  a  ringing  laugh. 

"I  know  what  you  thought,"  she  said,  and  looked  Morti- 
mer up  and  down.  "Well,  how  do  you  like  me?  It  was  a 
Frenchman  who  bought  me  these  things — not  an  American 
— oui,  a  Frenchman,  un  ail,  a  garlic.  What  do  you  think 
of  that?" 


THE  OUTSIDER  245 

And  she  stared  round  the  room  and,  fixing  her  eyes  on 
Mortimer,  repeated,  "What  do  you  think  of  that?" 

Mortimer  refused  to  be  drawn.  The  words  had  struck 
home,  but  he  would  not  answer.  Fulson,  who  had  not  un- 
derstood Mado's  tirade  against  Americans,  leaned  over, 
tapped  her  arm,  and  asked,  in  very  bad  French,  whether 
she  would  drink  with  him. 

"No  Americans  for  this  little  girl,  any  more,"  said  Mado, 
in  fair  English. 

"Why?"  asked  Fulson,  anxiously. 

"Americans  got  no  money,"  said  Mado,  enjoying  the 
paradox. 

"Americans  got  no  money?"  asked  Fulson,  amazed. 
"Where  d'ye  get  that  stuff?"  He  pulled  out  his  wallet, 
and  between  finger  and  thumb  drew  out  a  wad  of  notes — 
thousand  franc  notes.  He  flung  it  on  the  table.  ' '  Ameri- 
cans got  no  money?"  he  asked,  loudly. 

Mado  stared  at  the  bills,  and  then  at  Fulson,  a  brilliant 
smile  breaking  over  her  face.  "You  first  American  I  see 
got  money.  Jesus  Krise ! ' '  Fulson  put  the  bills  back  into 
his  pocket  with  a  swaggering  gesture. 

"Some  Americans  ain't  got  money,"  he  said,  blustering, 
and  looked  freely  at  Gorman  and  Mortimer.  "This  boy's 
got  it." 

Mortimer  sat  still.  Gorman,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
room,  was  staring  at  Fulson,  his  teeth  clenched.  But  Ful- 
son was  confident  in  the  presence  of  Maxie,  the  boxer;  all 
the  more  because  it  pleased  Maxie  to  see  Gorman  made  a 
fool  of. 

' '  Carmen, ' '  continued  Mado, ' '  you  can  believe  me.  Ameri- 
cans are  here  to  get  as  much  out  of  us  as  they  can.  Oh,  it's 
no  use  looking  away,  Monsieur  Mortimer.  Yes,  I  mean  you. 
Why  hasn't  Carmen  got  a  new  hat,  or  a  new  cloak?  Be- 


246  THE  OUTSIDER 

cause  you're  an  American.  You're  like  Ezra.  Tomorrow 
you  '11  leave  Carmen — as  soon  as  you  've  had  your  fill. ' ' 

Carmen  was  white.  "Mado,"  she  stammered,  "be  si- 
lent!" 

' '  You ! ' '  exclaimed  Mado.  ' '  You !  You  're  a  fool,  like  I 
was.  You  run  after  him,  ha?  What  does  he  care  about 
you?  What  does  he  buy  you?" 

She  was  trying  to  pay  back  Mortimer  for  her  disappoint- 
ment in  Ezra ;  but  she  hurt  Carmen  as  much  as  Mortimer, 
and  more. 

'  *  You  're  a  little  fool.  Don 't  I  know  you  ?  He  '11  live  with 
you  as  long  as  he's  got  no  money,  because  it's  cheaper — " 

Carmen  leapt  wildly  to  her  feet. 

"Beast!"  she  hissed.  Mortimer  suddenly  pulled  her 
down.  "If  you  say  another  word,"  he  said,  grimly.  "I'll 
— "  he  did  not  finish.  Carmen  shuddered. 

"Oui,  that's  how  it  is,"  said  Mado  lightly.  "You  must 
obey  him,  for  the  nice  dresses  and  hats  he  buys  you,  and 
the  restaurants  and  thes  dansants  he  takes  you  to." 

Fulson,  on  the  other  side  of  Maxie,  was  eyeing  Mado 
greedily.  He  tried  to  get  her  attention  again,  but  she 
ignored  him.  She  was  intent  on  Mortimer's  gloomy  face. 

"I  guess  that  kid  hasn't  met  the  right  kind  of  Ameri- 
can," he  said,  loudly,  to  Maxie.  "She's  met  the  pikers, 
the  no-account  guys,  without  enough  money  to  pay  a  taxi 
fare  from  the  Madeleine  to  the  Place  de  la  Concorde." 

Mortimer  felt  the  blood  in  him  hotter  and  hotter.  Still 
there  was  nothing  to  be  said.  On  the  bench,  to  his  left,  lay 
the  parcel  of  paintings  he  had  carried  round  the  city  with 
him  that  day.  In  his  wordless  rage  he  swore  to  himself  that 
he  was  done  with  that,  and  with  Fulson.  He  took  forty 
francs  from  his  pocket,  and  slipped  them  under  the  pack- 
age. He  would  hand  it  over  to  Fulson,  and  never  again 


THE  OUTSIDER  247 

have  anything  to  do  with  him,  unless  some  day  to  knock 
him  down  for  his  soul's  satisfaction. 

"There's  a  whole  bunch  of  cheap  Americans  knocking 
round  this  burg,"  agreed  Maxie,  who  had  not  yet  taken  part 
in  the  conversation,  "fellers  who  ain't  fit  to  be  called 
Americans. ' ' 

Mado  understood  and  nodded.    Fulson  was  encouraged. 

"Sure,"  he  said,  "there's  some  Americans  who  can't 
earn  a  living,  and  they  sponge  on  French  girls —  '  again 
he  meant  this  for  Mortimer,  to  please  Mado,  who  had  taken 
his  fancy  violently. 

"And there's  some  Americans,"  said  Maxie  loudly,  "who 
behave  like  swine  and  play  yaller  with  an  old  man's  wife 
behind  his  back,  because  he  can 't  stand  up  for  himself. ' ' 

"There's  some  Americans,"  shouted  Gorman  suddenly 
across  the  room,  "who'll  get  the  stuffing  ripped  clean  out 
of  'em,  boxer  or  no  boxer. ' ' 

A  brief,  tense  silence  followed.  Then  the  eyes  of  every 
person  in  the  room  turned  from  Maxie  to  Gorman  and  then 
back.  Both  men  were  rising  slowing,  their  eyes  starting  out 
at  each  other,  their  faces  stony  in  animal  fury.  Slowly, 
as  they  crouched,  they  pushed  their  tables  to  one  side,  to 
get  at  each  other.  Of  the  whole  roomful,  not  a  person 
stirred,  for  the  rage  of  these  two  men  held  them  in  a  mortal 
fascination. 

Without  a  sound  they  closed  in  the  center  of  the  room. 
Gorman  had  been  too  quick  for  the  boxer;  he  had  pinned 
both  his  arms  to  his  side  and  was  hugging  him  ferociously, 
his  chin  dug  with  all  his  strength  into  the  other's  collar 
bone.  Maxie  groaned  and  began  to  give  backwards. 

Carmen  screamed  and  the  spell  was  broken.  Fulson  was 
on  his  feet  and  leapt  at  Gorman.  Simultaneously  Mortimer 
and  Mrs.  Cray  dashed  at  the  group.  Fulson  staggered  back, 
snarling,  his  face  torn  in  four  places  by  Mrs.  Cray's  nails. 


248  THE  OUTSIDER 

' '  You  stinking  bastard ! ' '  she  screamed  at  him.  At  the  same 
moment  Maxie  got  one  foot  free  and  brought  it  up  violently 
into  Gorman 's  groin.  The  two  men  separated. 

Every  person  in  the  room  was  now  standing.  In  the 
center  a  struggling  group  had  formed — some  were  trying 
to  hold  Maxie,  others  Gorman. 

' '  The  yaller  dog, ' '  gasped  Gorman,  ' '  he  kicked  me ! "  He 
made  a  terrific  effort  and  shook  the  others  off.  ' '  I  '11  teach 
him." 

Before  anyone  could  understand  what  was  happening  he 
had  darted  to  a  table,  seized  a  wine  glass,  and  crashed  the 
bowl  of  it  against  the  edge  of  a  table.  "With  a  wild  howl, 
which  made  every  man  start  away  from  him,  he  leapt  at 
Maxie,  and  at  the  full  length  of  his  long  arm  swung  his  fist 
with  the  jagged  glass  in  it  down  into  the  boxer's  face.  A 
gasp  of  horror  went  up,  and  a  choked  scream  from  Maxie. 
The  blood  streamed  from  his  tattered  cheek  and  lips.  On 
the  edge  of  the  group  Marius  was  shouting  impotently. 

"Take  him  out  now,"  said  Gorman  to  Fulson.  "Take 
him  out,  by  God,  before  I  do  the  same  to  you. ' ' 

There  was  shouting  and  confusion.  A  handkerchief 
soaked  in  water  was  pressed  to  Maxie 's  face.  Someone  was 
bandaging  him  hastily.  Blinded  with  pain,  he  sat  on  a 
chair,  while  they  bound  him  up.  Gorman  had  gone  into 
his  corner  again,  and  stood  at  bay. 

"I'm  not  goin'  outa  here,"  he  answered  Mrs.  Cray 
fiercely.  "I  stay  right  here,  and  I  come  right  here  every 
evening,  and  if  that  boxer  wants  me,  he  knows  where  to 
find  me." 

Maxie  stood  up,  his  face  a  mass  of  bloody  bandages. 
Someone  had  called  for  a  taxi  and,  leaning  on  Fulson,  he 
staggered  out.  As  he  went  a  babel  of  voices  burst  out,  ex- 
planations to  Marius,  indignation,  and  not  a  little  covert 
glee  at  the  excitement  provided  free  of  charge. 


THE  OUTSIDER  249 

Mortimer  was  a  little  dizzy  but  taking  Carmen  by  the 
arm  he  made  through  the  babel  for  the  door.  Before  he  had 
reached  it  Gorman  was  at  his  side,  and  with  him  Mrs.  Cray. 

"Long,  I  always  said  you're  a  white  feller,  and  you 
showed  it  tonight.  Never  mind  that  boxer.  If  he  lays  a 
hand  on  you,  by  God,  I'll  knife  him." 

Mortimer  shrugged  his  shoulders.  Maxie  was  not  in  his 
mind. 

"Long,"  said  Gorman,  sincerely.  "Strue's  God,  I'm 
ready  to  help  you  when  you  say  the  word.  You  '11  find  me 
here  when  you  want  me.  And  if  I  'm  not  here — ' '  he  fished 
a  card  from  his  pocket — "you'll  find  me  here.  Keep  that 
card,  Long." 

Mortimer  nodded. 

"He  means  it,  Long,"  said  Mrs.  Cray,  passionately. 

Mortimer  turned  from  her  without  a  word.  Outside  he 
paused  and,  in  a  passion  of  disgust,  spat  on  the  wall  of  the 
Lapin  Cuit. 

"You  swine!"  he  groaned  between  his  teeth.  "I'm  not 
one  of  you  yet. ' ' 


CHAPTER  XIII 

A  NIGHT  of  unrestful  sleep  mingled  with  waking  stretches 
of  blank  hopelessness  brought  the  grey  morning.  Only 
after  Carmen  was  gone  did  the  great,  simple  idea  come  into 
his  mind ;  and  the  moment  it  came  he  was  astounded  at  his 
marvelous  denseness.  He  was  inclined  to  be  a  little  hilarious 
about  it.  Had  there  not  been  illustrious  examples  enough 
in  his  own  country  ?  He  would  sell  newspapers. 

He  went  out  of  the  house  almost  cheerful,  breakfasted  at 
the  corner  of  the  street — two  croissants  and  a  chocolate — 
and  set  out  for  the  boulevards.  He  knew  that  the  offices 
of  L'Aube — the  mid-day  paper — were  in  a  little  street  off 
the  rue  Lafayette.  As  far  as  he  could  remember,  the  first 
vendors  appeared  in  the  cafes  about  eleven-thirty ;  the  dis- 
tribution therefore  took  place  at  eleven.  It  was  not  nine 
o  'clock  yet ;  time  and  to  spare. 

Near  the  Invalides  it  came  on  to  rain  lightly.  He  walked 
faster,  so  as  to  reach  the  Boulevards.  There  he  would  wait 
in  the  lounge  of  some  hotel  till  the  rain  passed  over,  or  the 
tjme  arrived  to  get  the  papers.  At  the  Place  de  la  Con- 
corde the  rain  deepened  into  a  steady  downpour,  and  he  was 
aware  of  a  chill  wet  feeling  at  the  sole  of  his  left  foot.  It 
increased,  and  clung  closer  to  the  skin,  then  spread  to  the 
toes.  It  changed,  slowly,  from  a  mere  damp  feeling,  to  a 
spongy  sogginess  that  irritated  him.  Before  long  the  first 
symptoms  of  leakage  appeared  in  his  right  foot.  The  toes 
squelched  coldly  into  the  socks;  he  thought  he  heard  the 
sagging  waters  squeezing  up  and  down  between  the  toes. 
He  reflected  that  he  had  another  pair  of  shoes  at  home,  but 
their  condition  was  inferior  to  these ;  soling  and  heeling  of 

250 


THE  OUTSIDER  251 

a  pair  of  shoes  was  about  fifteen  francs — half  the  money  he 
possessed.  And  he  sighed,  closing  his  eyes. 

He  changed  his  plan  and  headed  straight  for  the  offices 
of  the  Aube.  An  unusual  prudence  warned  him  that  there 
would  be  long  queues  of  newspaper  vendors,  and  he  would 
be  a  stranger  amongst  them.  Then  he  became  diffident  as 
to  his  dress,  lest  it  were  a  little  too  decent.  If  he  could  bring 
it  down  to  the  level  of  his  shoes  it  might  be  better.  He 
fastened  his  overcoat  up  to  the  top,  to  hide  his  collar,  and 
pushed  his  gloves  into  his  pocket.  At  a  shop  window  he  ex- 
amined himself.  He  looked  reasonably  bedraggled.  He 
guessed  he  would  do. 

The  entrance  to  the  offices  of  the  Aube  were  on  a  mean 
street  off  the  rue  Lafayette.  Mortimer  understood  that  the 
distributing  room  must  be  somewhere  at  the  side  or  the 
back,  and  he  wandered  round,  uninterested,  keeping  to  the 
wall  in  partial  shelter  from  the  rain.  In  a  back  alley  he 
came  on  the  queue  he  was  expecting,  a  thin  line  of  human 
beings  against  the  wall,  their  heads  bent — all  sizes  and  con- 
ditions of  men  and  women  and  children,  grey-beards, 
ancient  beldames,  boys  and  girls,  a  shivering  line  that 
curled  down  and  to  the  side  through  a  door  and  probably, 
reflected  Mortimer,  doubled  on  itself  three  or  four  times 
in  a  dry,  spacious  basement. 

He  took  his  place  behind  an  old  man,  unshaven  and  with 
hollow  cheeks.  He  felt  the  same  silly  amusement  coming 
over  him  as  when  he  had  first  ventured  into  a  hotel  to  sell 
Fulson's  pictures,  a  shivering,  hysterical  hilarity.  Nobody 
would  believe  that  he  wanted  to  sell  papers  on  the  streets. 
He  would  not  have  been  surprised  to  see  the  line  turn  on 
him,  and  chase  him  away  with  derisive  shouts.  Once  or 
twice,  trembling  with  cold  and  the  intolerable  sponginess 
of  his  socks,  he  broke  into  a  short  laugh,  making  the  old 


252  THE  OUTSIDER 

man  in  front  of  him  turn  round,  with  a  brutish  look  of  dis- 
pleasure. 

The  line  grew  slowly  behind  him — first  a  boy  with  a 
great  English  cap  drawn  over  his  eyes,  than  a  powerful 
young  woman  with  a  red,  cheerful  face,  and  then  others. 
Most  of  these  people  had  an  oilcloth  bag  hanging  from  a 
shoulder.  In  this  rain  the  papers  would  not  last  an  hour, 
he  realised.  He  would  have  to  keep  them  under  his  coat. 
He  shivered ;  it  was  a  mean  cold  that  ran  up  and  down  his 
body  and  limbs,  but  as  the  line  behind  him  grew  longer,  he 
was  glad  he  had  come  so  early  instead  of  waiting  till  half 
past  ten. 

His  overcoat  was  heavy  with  rain,  and  he  began  to  fear 
that  his  clothes  underneath  would  soak,  for  even  the  drift 
of  rain  that  reached  this  half  shelter  accumulated  stead- 
ily. He  stood  as  near  as  possible  to  the  wall.  To  pass  the 
time  and  dull  his  mind  against  the  cold,  he  repeated  verses 
to  himself.  The  minutes  passed  with  merciless  slowness. 
He  took  to  counting  the  seconds,  "one-little-tick-tack  two- 
little-tick-tack  three-little-tick-tack — "  and  forgot  himself 
for  short  stretches. 

' '  Right ! ' '  The  word  passed  slowly  down  the  line.  They 
shuffled  up  closer  to  the  door.  Then,  from  another  door  a 
few  steps  away,  a  boy  flashed  out,  yelling  shrilly,  "L'Aube, 
voyez  I'Aube!"  His  bundle  under  his  arm,  he  darted  up 
the  street,  and  turned  towards  the  rue  Lafayette.  Then 
came  a  young  woman,  walking  rapidly,  but  saving  her 
breath — then  a  third,  a  fourth,  dozens  of  them,  streaming 
right  and  left  from  the  exit.  The  line  pressed  inwards  im- 
patiently ;  the  whole  of  Paris  would  be  supplied  before  he 
got  his  papers.  He  would  come  even  earlier  tomorrow. 

The  line  pulled  him  at  last  into  the  steps  leading  to  the 
basement.  The  warm  tiring  air  beat  in  waves;  he  heard 
the  low  thunder  of  the  presses.  A  tumult  of  shrill  voices 


THE  OUTSIDER  253 

reached  him  from  the  interior.  "Nom  de  Dieu,  how  slow 
they  are.  It'll  be  time  for  the  evening  editions."  Then, 
round  a  white-washed  wall,  he  came  into  the  distributing1 
room,  flickering  in  violet  light,  half  a  dozen  perspiring  wo- 
men behind  a  counter,  yelling  figures,  slapping  down 
bundles,  men  that  ran  in  with  trucks  loaded  with  papers, 
hands  lifted,  notes,  a  medley,  a  pandemonium.  He  tried  to 
hear  some  of  the  figures.  What  did  the  papers  cost  ?  He 
pulled  out  three  five-franc  bills.  He  reached  a  counter  and 
pushed  the  bills  into  a  woman's  hand;  ''Fifteen?"  she 
howled.  "You're  crazy,  you!"  She  thrust  a  five-fran-? 
note  at  him  again,  and  pushed  a  bundle  of  papers  at  him. 
Mortimer  grabbed  the  papers  with  a  loud  shout  "Non!"  and 
thrust  the  five-franc  note  back  at  her.  She  almost  spat  in 
his  face — then  gave  him  a  second,  smaller  bundle.  He  put 
the  two  together  and  fled  from  the  bedlam. 

In  the  street  he  opened  his  coat  and  hid  the  papers  under 
it,  though  it  had  ceased  to  rain.  Half  a  dozen  vendors 
slipped  by  him,  yelling.  Where  the  devil  was  he  to  go  ?  He 
walked  into  the  rue  Lafayette.  Would  he  have  to  start 
bawling  "L'Aube!" — like  the  others.  Could  he  do  it  with- 
out attracting  too  much  attention.  "L'Aube,"  he  said  sud- 
denly to  himself,  and  felt  a  fool. 

Then  he  pulled  the  bundle  of  papers  into  the  light.  As 
long  as  he  did  not  shout  "L'Aube!"  nobody  would  know 
that  he  was  selling  papers.  That  was  a  relief.  Then  he 
laughed  wildly  and  pulled  a  sheet  from  the  bundle.  He 
waved  it  aloft  and  shouted,  "L'Aube!"  That  was  alright, 
wasn't  it?  Nobody  took  any  notice  of  him.  He  repeated 
the  experiment.  Same  result.  So  it  was  a  perfectly  legiti- 
mate thing  to  do.  He  gained  confidence.  His  voice  became 
firmer.  In  a  few  minutes  he  was  fascinated  at  his  own  dar- 
ing. He  chuckled  with  real  enjoyment  between  the  shouts. 

At  the  corner,  near  the  back  of  the  Opera,  somebody  in- 


254  THE  OUTSIDER 

terrupted  him  to  buy  a  paper.  He  was  startled.  He  re- 
ceived the  three  sous  automatically — and  passed  into  ela- 
tion. It  was  done,  a  real  beginning  had  been  made.  He 
walked  rapidly  down  to  the  boulevard  shouting  "L'Aube!" 
in  a  powerful  voice  that  rang  up  and  down  the  street. 
"L'Aube,  voyez  I'Aube!"  He  began  to  keep  his  eyes  open. 
It  was  quite  a  game. 

He  forgot  himself  in  the  excitement  of  the  sales.  Hia 
eyes  flashed  up  and  down  the  crowds.  He  did  not  wait  now 
for  buyers  to  come  to  him.  He  smelt  them  from  afar.  A 
tiny  gesture  was  enough  for  him — a  motion  to  the  pocket, 
a  lifted  face.  His  fingers  became  expert  in  pulling  a  sheet 
from  the  bundle. 

At  the  Cafe  de  Madrid  he  walked  a  few  moments  up  and 
down,  eyeing  the  drinkers  eagerly.  Then  he  plunged  in 
past  a  waiter,  and  made  the  round  of  the  cafe.  Six  papers. 
He  went  forth  joyfully,  still  braying  with  a  throat  voice — 
to  save  his  lungs — "L'Aube,  voyez  I'Aube!" 

He  worked  his  way  rapidly  towards  the  Boulevard  Sebas- 
topol.  The  further  he  went  the  more  difficult  became  his 
sales.  Many  passers-by  had  the  sheet  in  their  hands.  He 
passed  two  women  coming  in  his  direction  and  looks  of  en- 
mity darted  from  him  to  them  and  back  again.  Unreflect- 
ingly he  accused  them  of  stealing  his  pitch,  and  then  re- 
membered that  they  had  the  same  right  as  he  to  the  sale  of 
I'Aube.  But  his  resentment  would  not  die  so  logically ;  they 
were  in  the  wrong — somehow  they  were  in  the  wrong. 

It  was  no  use  turning  back.  He  continued  as  far  as  the 
Place  de  la  Republique,  in  and  out  of  the  cafes,  shouting, 
shouting.  He  kept  his  eyes  wide  open  for  other  news- 
vendors,  and  his  heart  smote  him  when  he  passed  an  old 
woman  bent  in  two,  who  shuffled  in  the  same  direction, 
chirping  almost  inaudibly,  'L'Aube,  voyez  I'Aube!"  He 


THE  OUTSIDER  255 

refrained  from  shouting  again  until  he  had  left  her  well 
behind. 

At  one  o'clock  hunger  came  strong,  but  the  cafes  were 
beginning  to  fill  with  workers,  taking  their  digestive  before 
returning  to  work.  After  lunch  they  would  be  more  inclined 
to  spend  three  sous  on  a  paper.  And  he  did  'not  know  how 
many  papers  remained  to  be  sold;  he  did  not  know  what 
they  had  cost  him.  His  overcoat  pockets  were  weighted 
down  with  copper  and  nickel  coins,  but  what  his  gain  or 
loss  was  he  could  not  tell. 

He  was  hoarse  with  shouting,  and  thoroughly  tired;  his 
shoes  had  dried  by  now,  but  in  his  feet  there  was  the  warm 
uncomfortable  tingling  which  follows  when  clothes  have 
dried  on  the  body.  He  would  have  liked  to  take  his  shoes 
and  stockings  off,  and  give  his  feet  air.  But  he  continued. 
The  papers  under  his  arm  were  a  mere  sheaf  now.  Another 
half  hour,  and  they  would  be  gone. 

There  was  something  friendly  in  a  human  being  who 
bought  a  paper.  Mortimer  considered  the  act  as  a  personal 
favor  to  himself,  and  his  "merci"  for  the  three  sous  was  so 
sincere  that  it  quite  startled  one  or  two  purchasers. 

At  two  o'clock  he  almost  gave  it  up.  The  bundle  under 
his  arm  was  tantalisingly  thin,  but  his  throat  hurt  him,  he 
was  weak  with  hunger  and  his  feet  were  as  of  lead.  And 
the  cafes  were  half  empty;  the  people  on  the  streets  were 
different  now;  they  were  intent  on  business.  Then  he  re- 
membered that  the  queues  for  the  evening  papers  would 
probably  be  forming  by  now,  and  he  still  had  to  eat.  He 
went  on  for  five  minutes  longer,  uttering  his  "I'Aube!" 
without  conviction.  He  did  not  sell  a  single  copy.  At  a 
tiny  restaurant,  "le  rendezvous  des  Chauffeurs,"  he  drop- 
ped into  a  chair.  He  was  done  for  the  morning. 

Waiting  for  his  food,  he  counted  up  the  copper,  nickel 
and  silver  coins.  Twenty-one  francs!  He  had  made  six 


256  THE  OUTSIDER 

francs  in  all!  Stupefied,  he  counted  the  sheets  still  left. 
Ten.  So  he  made  a  sou  on  every  paper  he  sold,  and  lost  two 
on  every  one  he  did  not  sell.  The  discovery,  on  top  of  his 
weariness  and  hunger,  almost  broke  him.  He  ate  slowly, 
without  appetite.  At  the  end  of  the  meal  the  patron,  seeing 
the  piles  of  change,  offered  him  notes  for  it,  plus  a  glass  of 
white  wine.  Mortimer  kept  only  a  franc  in  copper.  The 
meal  had  cost  him  three  francs. 

Tired  and  shaken  as  he  was,  he  would  have  turned  home ; 
but  the  knowledge  that  another  six  francs  might  be  earned 
pushed  him,  almost  against  his  will,  to  further  effort. 

He  would  try  the  Flambeau  as  an  evening  paper.  The 
offices  were  in  the  rue  du  Faubourg  Montmartre,  close  to  the 
main  Boulevards.  Wearily  he  dragged  himself  in  that  di- 
rection; there  was  no  laughter  in  him  when  he  took  his 
place  in  the  line.  He  only  felt  a  sullen  rage  against  these 
countless  newsvendors.  How  could  one  earn  even  six  francs 
when  there  were  hordes  like  these  all  waiting  to  sell  the 
paper?  . 

He  came  home  after  eleven  that  evening.  Carmen  lifted 
a  tired,  frightened  face  to  him  as  he  lurched  in  and  flung 
himself  on  the  bed.  He  was  too  broken  to  utter  a  word. 
He  lay  there  and  groaned  once  or  twice,  and  Carmen  stood 
over  him,  her  hands  clasped  in  distress. 

It  rained  the  whole  of  that  week.  Mortimer  changed  his 
shoes,  and  sent  the  better  pair  to  be  soled  and  heeled,  but 
the  shoemaker  asked  for  six  days,  and  the  cost  was  seventeen 
francs.  Mortimer  hated  the  rain  with  a  wild,  choking 
hatred.  He  looked  upon  it  as  petty  persecution,  a  cheap, 
laughterless  malice,  and  when  the  cold  wet  crept  into  his 
shoes  he  became  inhuman  with  irritation. 

He  trotted  over  the  whole  of  Paris  in  the  rain  of  that 
week,  from  la  Villette  to  Montparnasse  and  from  the  Bois 
de  Boulogne  beyond  the  Place  de  la  Bastille — by  the  main 


THE  OUTSIDER  257 

Boulevards,  by  the  Exterior  Boulevards,  north  and  south. 
One  evening  he  found  himself  outside  the  Monico  where, 
less  than  two  months  before,  he  had  flung  hundred  franc 
bills  away  with  Ezra  and  Juliette  and  Odette.  He  shouted 
the  louder  here,  in  ironic  celebration  of  the  past.  He  re- 
cognised the  man  who  had  helped  him  to  his  feet  that  night ; 
but  the  man  did  not  recognize  him.  There  was  a  good 
reason;  he  had  not  shaved  for  three  days;  the  rain  had 
taken  all  the  shape  out  of  his  clothes;  his  hat  was  a 
crumpled  jumble  of  felt,  and,  unbeknown  to  himself,  his 
eyes  were  feverishly  restless.  He  watched  the  taxis  draw- 
ing up  to  the  door,  watched  the  prodigals  step  haughtily 
forth  and  slip  something  to  the  doorkeeper.  He  offered 
them  "le  Flambeau,"  but  they  were  not  interested.  He 
moved  off  soon,  for  the  Place  Pigalle  was  not  a  good  buyer. 
The  crowd  was  too  interested  in  the  pleasure  hunt. 

He  became  accustomed  to  fatigue  and  to  hunger,  but  not 
to  the  wet  feet.  When  he  came  home  in  the  evenings  he 
pulled  his  shoes  and  stockings  off  and  drew  fresh  stockings 
on.  It  was  like  a  re-birth.  He  sat  there  on  one  chair,  his 
slippered  feet  on  another,  and  almost  moaned  in  the  ecstacy 
of  restfulness.  And  Carmen  sat  by  him,  mute,  and  waiting 
painfully  for  the  occasional  smile  he  threw  her  out  of  his 
weariness. 

He  had  not  told  her  what  he  was  working  at ;  she  only 
knew  that  he  returned  late  of  nights,  a  broken  man,  unable 
to  move  a  limb.  He  did  not  speak.  He  threw  her  caresses 
off  impatiently,  and  then  smiled  at  her  to  console  her.  She 
asked  him  once  or  twice  what  he  was  doing,  and  though  he 
did  not  tell  her,  she  implored  him  not  to  work  so  ha'rd.  She 
could  guess  that  he  spent  most  of  the  day  on  his  feet,  in  the 
rain.  But  the  truth  never  once  suggested  itself  to  her. 

She  was  infinitely  gentle  with  him,  knowing  that  he  was 
miserable  beyond  words;  but  her  gentleness  became  un- 


258  THE  OUTSIDER 

bearable  to  him.  He  meditated  evenings  on  the  next 
month's  rent.  Where  would  it  come  from?  Carmen  should 
not  pay  it,  not  if  he  had  to  go  into  the  street  and  knock  a 
man  down  for  it.  He  knew  that  every  week  she  had  put 
aside  the  sum  she  had  used  to  pay  out  in  rent ;  but  she 
should  never  use  that  except  to  buy  herself  clothes.  He 
swore  it  wildly  and  impotently  to  himself — and  he  almost 
hated  her  because  his  debt  to  her  tortured  him  so.  Even 
when  she  told  him  timidly  one  evening  that  Monsieur  Blumer 
had  made  her  contremaitre,  on  a  fixed  salary  of  three  hun- 
dred and  fifty  francs  a  month,  he  did  not  relax.  All  the 
more  reason  that  he  should  earn  more  money,  now  that 
she  earned  so  much.  And  every  alternate  day  he  would 
leave  five  francs  with  her,  or  ten  francs.  He  did  not  care 
that  the  money  was  not  needed,  that  she  put  it  aside.  He 
would  give  her  whatever  he  had.  Why?  Why?  Had  he 
any  belief  in  the  economic  obligation  of  a  man  to  a  woman  ? 
None,  he  asserted  obstinately  to  himself.  And  as  obstinately 
he  cut  down  his  meals,  stinted  himself  tobacco,  and  brought 
her  money;  an  instinct  stronger  than  himself,  other  than 
himself,  forbade  him  to  live  with  the  woman  and  bring  her 
no  offerings. 

The  mended  shoes  came  at  last,  and  when  he  paid  for 
them  his  capital  was  cut  to  seventeen  francs.  There  were 
eight  days  to  the  new  month — a  hundred  and  fifty  francs 
were  needed.  ONE  HUNDRED  AND  FIFTY  FRANCS. 
Then,  two  days  after  the  shoes  came  back,  he  perceived 
that  fresh  laundry  had  returned.  Carmen  had  paid  and 
said  nothing,  hoping  he  would  not  notice.  He  was  annoyed 
by  her  duplicity. 

"What  did  the  laundry  cost?" 

She  stammered  in  her  discomfort.  ' '  Nothing,  Mortimer. ' ' 
''Don't  be  foolish.  Here's  ten  francs." 

"Mortimer,  it  only  cost  five." 


THE  OUTSIDER  259 

"Doesn't  matter,  doesn't  matter." 

Then  he  reflected,  to  his  horror,  that  he  would  be  left 
with  only  seven  francs,  not  enough  to  buy  his  batch  of  news- 
papers in  advance.  He  was  chilled  to  the  marrow.  The 
ten  francs  lay  there  on  the  table.  He  could  not  take  them 
back — not  to  save  himself  from  death. 

"Put  that  money  away,  Carmen." 

"Mortimer,  please,  please." 

"Put  it  away,  Carmen." 

She  put  the  money  slowly  into  her  old  bag.  There  were 
tears  in  her  eyes. 

Mortimer  maintained  a  savage  silence.  He  cast  about 
him,  vainly.  If  he  only  tool;  seven  francs  worth  of  news- 
papers, he  could  make  no  more  than  three  francs  fifty  on 
them  .  .  .  Three  francs  fifty  would  pay  for  his  lunch. 
Breakfast  could  be  forgotten  for  once. 

There  was  his  typewriter,  but  he  shrank  in  on  himself 
at  the  suggestion  of  selling  that.  Without  the  machine  he 
would  indeed  be  a  beggar.  True,  he  never  used  it,  but  it 
was  all  his  wealth — besides  his  worthless  clothes.  It  was 
the  final  bulwark  before  the  horrible  abyss.  Better  no 
breakfast,  a  trifling  lunch — he  would  soon  have  his  fifteen 
francs  again  for  the  usual  batch  of  papers. 

The  next  morning  he  sold  his  watch,  and  when  he  re- 
turned late  at  night  he  was  sick,  and  brought  up  the  mis- 
erable supper  he  had  eaten  in  a  dirty  little  restaurant  at 
the  other  end  of  Paris. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

EVERY  reasonable  instinct  warned  him  to  stay  at  home 
the  following  day.  All  night  he  had  been  feverish,  with  a 
curious,  unloeated  fever,  that  shook  his  body,  his  limbs  and 
his  head  alternately.  He  believed  he  had  not  slept  a  single 
moment;  but  he  could  not  be  certain  of  anything;  he  was 
light-headed,  and  he  labored  under  an  exaggerated  self- 
assurance,  the  irresponsibility  of  which  amused  him.  Deep  in 
him  something  quiet  said  again  and  again,  "Stay  in  bed, 
stay  in  bed, ' '  but  side  by  side  with  that  voice  another  said, 
* '  If  you  don 't  earn  any  money,  Carmen  will  have  to  buy  you 
things  out  of  her  own  money.  It  will  then  be  as  if  she  were 
keeping  you, ' '  and  the  room  reeled. 

He  had  to  make  no  formal  resolution  to  go  to  work  that 
morning.  A  vindictive  obstinacy  pulled  him  in  due  course 
out  of  bed,  clothed  him  while  he  shivered,  dragged  him, 
stumbling,  down  the  stairs,  and  thrust  him  into  the  cafe  at 
the  corner,  where  he  asked  for  his  usual  breakfast,  a  cafe 
and  two  croissants.  He  would  not  ride  to  work.  He 
shambled  unevenly  along  the  avenues,  heedless  of  men  and 
women,  keeping  his  mind  grimly  on  his  destination,  as 
though,  if  he  forgot  it  for  one  moment,  he  would  never  re- 
member it  again. 

When,  half-way  to  the  newspaper  offices,  the  rain  began 
to  fall,  he  took  off  his  hat  to  it  with  a  sardonic  friendliness, 
and  spoke  aloud,  "Bless  me,  I  was  expecting  you."  A  few 
people  observed  the  long,  ill-dressed,  unshaven  American 
waving  his  hat  and  talking  to  himself,  but  Mortimer  did 
not  think  of  them  until  five  minutes  later  &nd  then  he  said, 
laughing  aloud,  "They  must  have  thought  me  drunk." 

The  day  went  by  like  a  series  of  incredible  dreams:  he 

260 


THE  OUTSIDER  261 

believed  that  he  was  selling  papers,  shouting,  handling  small 
coins,  saying  "Merci,"  and  the  belief  filled  him  with  ter- 
rific amazement.  Was  it  true?  "Was  he  there,  doing  these 
extraordinary  things,  or  was  he  not  ?  Was  he  lunching  in  a 
cubicle  in  the  rue  St.  Roch,  amongst  gruff,  noisy  beasts, 
that  smacked  their  thick  lips,  wiped  the  reeking  sauce  off 
the  heavy,  chipped  plates  and  thrust  the  spongy  piece  of 
bread  into  great,  glutinous  mouths — unshaven  brutes, 
healthy,  dirty — and  women  with  them?  He  calculated 
whether  they  were  there  or  not — stink  and  everything :  very 
gravely  he  calculated  it,  groaning  at  his  own  absurdity, 
putting  his  hand  from  time  to  time  to  his  forehead  to  wipe 
away  the  tickling  sweat,  and  finding  it  drier  than  summer 
chalk. 

During  part  of  the  afternoon  an  unexpected  and  fictitious 
sense  of  energy  pervaded  him.  He  was  not  as  heavy  to  him- 
self as  usual;  he  remarked  this  with  infantine  pleasure, 
walked  rapidly  for  stretches,  forgetful  of  his  papers,  to  test 
his  new  condition.  "Quite  good,  extraordinarily  good," 
he  said,  after  deliberating  carefully.  "Inexplicable  re- 
crudescence of  juvenility,  probably  preceding  inevitable 
senility ' ' —  and  he  went  on  rhyming  with  much  relish  ' '  in- 
duced prematurely  by  feverish  debility,  helped  by  congeni- 
tal sub-imbecility — "  his  eyes  glittered  on  the  passers-by, 
seeking  a  kind  of  approbation. 

Now  and  again  he  woke  to  commercial  activity,  flourish- 
ing his  newspapers,  and  shouting  fiercely,  "Le  Flambeau, 
voyez  le  Flambeau!"  and  on  several  occasions  he  brushed 
excitedly  by  people  who  wanted  to  stop  him  to  purchase 
a  copy.  They  were  in  the  way. 

But  in  the  later  evening,  when  he  sat  down  to  eat  again, 
he  knew  he  was  behaving  like  a  fool,  and  he  set  a  vicious 
guard  on  himself.  He  began  to  do  things  with  grim  care- 
fulness ;  he  ordered  the  menu  slowly,  watching  the  waitress 


262  THE  OUTSIDER 

for  any  signs  of  astonishment.  He  ate  slowly,  with  a  brief 
meditation  on  each  mouthful  that  he  lifted.  There  was 
nothing  erratic  about  his  behaviour — nor  about  his  thoughts, 
for  that  matter.  Of  course  not.  The  only  illusion  was  that 
he  thought  them  erratic  while  they  were  ordinary.  This 
explanation  came  like  a  flash  of  lightning  into  his  mind. 
Of  course !  Of  course !  He  was  quite  normal,  his  thoughts 
were  normal;  he  only  thought  they  were  abnormal;  see? 
How  simple  and  obvious !  He  was  indescribably  delighted. 
Oh  for  someone  to  explain  it  to ! 

He  only  needed  a  drink  after  the  meal  to  dispel  that  last, 
foolish  illusion.  He  smiled  indulgently  at  the  waitress  and 
ordered  a  Benedictine,  and  when  it  came  he  stared  at  it, 
still  smiling  indulgently.  He  lifted  the  glass  and  drank, 
witlxhis  eyes  closed.  When  he  set  the  glass  down  and  opened 
his  eyes,  he  saw  Gaby,  sitting  in  front  of  him. 

A  pointless  cunning  checked  the  slightest  motion  of  sur- 
prise. Why  should  he  be  surprised.  She  was  not  surprised. 
She  would  get  an  advantage  over  him  if  he  showed  surprise. 

"Good  evening,  Gaby,"  he  said,  and  held  out  his  dirty 
hand. 

"Good  evening,"  she  said,  but  did  not  see  his  hand. 

"I  was  thinking,"  said  Mortimer,  infusing  apology  into 
his  voice.  Then  they  both  remained  silent,  and  he  remem- 
bered her  by  this  habit.  He  was  carelessly  conscious  of  his 
dirty  hands  and  face,  the  lack  of  a  collar,  the  bundle  of 
unsold  papers  on  the  seat. 

"It's  a  long  time  since  I  saw  you,"  he  said  sadly. 

She  nodded.  ' '  She  is  looking  at  me,  and  wondering  what 
the  devil  has  come  over  me,"  he  thought.  "A  very  long 
time,"  he  repeated,  casting  about  for  conversation.  She 
nodded  again. 

"How  is  Fernande?"  he  asked,  inspired. 

"As  usual." 


THE  OUTSIDER  263 

"Do  you  see  her  often?" 

"Every  day,  as  usual." 

"Will  you  drink  with  me?"  he  asked;  the  cost  did  not 
matter.  "Madame,  another  Benedictine,"  he  said  to  the 
waitress.  The  waitress  brought  the  drink  and  set  it  down 
in  front  of  him.  "Thank  you,"  he  said,  advisedly. 

"Times  have  changed,"  said  Mortimer  sighing,  but  re- 
flected that  it  would  be  quite  silly  to  tell  her  any  of  his 
personal  troubles ;  she  would  not  even  be  not  interested ; 
her  ear  would  just  not  receive  them.  ' '  Times  have  changed 
since  you  and  I  and  Fernande  and  Ezra  were  together." 

She  nodded.  "Ezra  is  with  Fernande,"  she  said,  dis- 
tinctly. 

"Of  course,  of  course,"  said  Mortimer,  again  repressing 
the  quiver  of  surprise.  "It's  a  long  time  since  I  saw  him, 
too." 

Then  followed  another  pause. 

"We're  quite  close  to  the  rue  de  Breuil,"  said  Morti- 
mer; "you  said  number  ten,  didn't  you?" 

She  nodded. 

They  sat  looking  at  each  other  for  many  minutes.  A  de- 
sire welled  up  like  a  pain  in  Mortimer's  heart  to  see  Ezra 
again,  to  hold  his  hand  for  a  moment,  like  a  friend. 

"We'll  go  now,"  he  said,  assuming  that  she  would  come 
with  him.  "I  may  not  be  round  here  again  soon."  He 
gave  this  as  an  excuse,  for  every  day  he  would  come  in 
this  direction. 

He  called  the  waitress  and  paid,  but  before  going  he 
noticed  that  Gaby 's  glass  was  untouched.  He  was  not  sur- 
prised. Outside  he  turned  at  once  in  the  direction  of  the 
rue  du  Breuil.  He  could  calculate  fairly  accurately  the 
whereabouts  of  number  ten;  it  would  be  near  the  corner 
of  the  rue  Clignancourt.  His  heart  rioted  in  him.  He 
felt  he  could  not  speak,  lest  he  should  choke.  When  he 


264  THE  OUTSIDER 

reached  the  house,  with  its  closed  iron  doors,  he  hesitated, 
almost  overcome.  Gaby  was  not  with  him.  He  would 
ask  the  concierge  where  Mademoiselle  Fernande  lived. 

He  rang  twice.  The  catch  clicked  and  the  door  swung 
in  slightly.  A  voice  came  out  of  the  darkness,  "Who's 
that?"  "It's  for  Mademoiselle  Fernande,"  answered 
Mortimer  into  the  darkness.  "Fourth  on  the  right,"  was 
the  answer.  He  waited  till  he  could  see  a  little  and  began 
the  climb.  His  legs  were  hot  and  bent  with  difficulty. 

The  light  glimmered  under  the  door.  He  could  not  see 
a  bell,  so  he  rapped,  then  leaned  against  the  wall,  panting, 
and  wondering  why  his  heart  behaved  so  strangely.  There 
were  footsteps,  the  door  opened,  and  a  face  was  pushed 
round  it. 

"Good  evening,  Fernande." 

"Ah,  look!    Monsieur  Mortimer!    What  a  surprise!" 

They  stared  at  each  other,  Mortimer  grinning  and  pant- 
ing. 

"But  come  in,  please." 

"Ezra  is  here,  isn't  he?" 

"Of  course." 

She  was  cunning,  too.  Why  of  course  ?  He  would  never 
have  thought  of  it  but  for  Gaby.  But  he  would  not  tell. 

He  followed  her  down  the  lobby  into  a  big,  dim-lit  room 
under  a  double-skylight.  A  gas-stove  stood  in  the  middle, 
throwing  a  soft  circle  of  holes  of  light.  The  corners  and 
sides  of  the  room  were  hidden  behind  busts,  casts,  wooden 
models,  lay  figures,  canvasses,  easles;  but  along  one  wall 
a  flight  of  steps  ascended  and  reached  a  door  let  into  the 
wall.  Desolate ! 

Unasked,  he  took  off  his  coat  and  threw  it  on  to  a  chair. 

"How  are  you,  Fernande?" 

"Well,  and  you?" 

"So,  so.    Where's  EzraT" 


THE  OUTSIDER  265 

She  pointed  to  the  stairs  climbing  up  the  wall. 

"Ezra's  up  there,  in  the  den." 

A  cold,  still  odor  lay  in  the  room,  unfamiliar  and  friendly. 

"Can  I  go  up?"  he  asked. 

' '  Of  course.    I  '11  be  up  in  a  moment. ' ' 

He  went  up,  excited,  scarce  able  to  control  himself.  He 
knocked  at  the  door  in  the  wall,  and  a  voice  that  he  did 
not  recognise,  said,  "Entrez."  He  pushed  open  the  door 
and  came  into  sudden  brightness;  a  tiny  room,  with  a 
broad  divan  taking  up  one-half  of  its  space;  and  at  one 
end  of  the  divan,  seated  Turkish  fashion  on  a  pile  of 
cushions,  Ezra,  in  a  dressing  gown.  His  yellow  face,  rest- 
ing against  the  wall,  remained  fixed  for  a  while  on  Morti- 
mer, and  a  slow,  deadly  smile  came  over  it. 

"Hello,  Mortimer." 

Mortimer's  excitement  was  checked  by  a  dreadful,  in- 
comprehensible fear.  He  did  not  go  forward,  he  did  not 
offer  his  hand.  The  unfamiliar  yet  friendly  odor  was 
stronger  in  this  tiny  room. 

"Hello,  Ezra,"  he  said  dully.  The  half-delirium  of  the 
day  slipped  from  him  like  a  garment.  His  mind  was  clear, 
but  he  did  not  understand.  Ezra  held  his  hand  out.  He 
went  forward  and  took  it.  It  was  cold,  yellow,  like  the 
quiet  face  above  it. 

"Sit  down,  Mortimer.     How 're  things?" 

Mortimer  looked  down  on  his  shapeless  clothes  and  put 
a  hand  up  to  his  collarless  neck.  "So,  so,"  he  answered, 
and  felt  the  blood  come  into  his  face.  ' '  How  are  you  ? ' ' 

"The  same,"  said  Ezra,  laughing  softly  at  him.  "We 
are  fallen  on  evil  days,  both  of  us,  ha?  Who  told  you  I 
was  here?" 

"No  one,"  said  Mortimer.  "It  occurred  to  me  this  eve- 
ning. You  don't  mind  my  coming?" 

"Now  that  you  are  here,  no.    Indeed,  I'm  glad  to  see 


266  THE  OUTSIDER 

you.  I'd  have  come  to  see  you  some  day  myself,  but  I 
haven't  stirred  out  of  this  house  for — weeks." 

Mortimer  looked  about  him.  The  walls  of  the  room 
were  green,  and  a  yellow  line  ran  round  them  half-way  up. 
Above  this  yellow  line  a  number  of  fantastic  designs  in 
red  and  black  went  up  as  far  as  the  green  ceiling;  always 
the  same  theme — a  fan,  at  the  centre  a  goblin  figure,  and 
the  ribs  of  the  fan  the  long,  bony  fingers.  The  bodies  and 
faces  of  the  goblins  differed,  but  all  of  them  grinned. 

"Fernande's  work,"  said  Ezra.  "She's  clever.  She's 
done  some  curious  illustrations  for  the  'Jardin  des  Sup- 
plices.'  ' 

To  Ezra's  right  by  the  divan,  stood  a  low  table,  and  on 
it  burned  a  tiny  spirit  lamp.  Round  the  lamp  were  scat- 
tered small  bowls,  and  across  these  lay  a  brown  tube.  A 
glimmer  of  understanding  came  into  Mortimer's  mind, 
but  he  dared  not  trust  himself. 

"The  days  follow  each  other,  and  are  alike,"  quoted 
Ezra,  as  if  to  himself.  "One  learns  new  things  and  tires 
of  them,  and  the  immortal  boredom  wakes  again.  Where 
shall  we  hide  our  heads  from  the  eternal  ennwif  What 
are  you  doing  these  days,  old  Mortimer."  There  was  a 
touch  of  helplessness  and  affection  in  the  last  question. 
Mortimer  would  have  taken  his  hand  and  pressed  it.  All 
sense  of  false  shame  for  his  new  poverty  left  him  there 
and  then.  He  could  speak  to  Ezra  freely  and  simply,  as 
of  old. 

"I'm  dragging  along,"  he  said  smiling.  "I've  got  a 
new  job.  I'm  selling  newspapers.  It's  as  good  as  any- 
thing else.  I'm  glad  of  it,  or  I  wouldn't  have  met  Gaby 
accidentally  this  evening,  and  I  wouldn  't  have  known  where 
you  were." 

Ezra  ignored  this  contradiction,  in  Mortimer's  account; 
he  only  said,  slowly. 


THE  OUTSIDER  267 

"It's  curious.  Gaby  hasn't  been  here  since  I  came  here. 
I  wonder  how  she  knew." 

"She  told  me  she  comes  here  every  day,"  said  Mortimer, 
puzzled. 

"No.  Before  I  came  here,  she  picked  up  with  a  rich 
Norwegian.  They're  still  in  Paris,  but  we  don't  know 
where  they're  living." 

Mortimer  put  his  hand  to  his  head. 

"It's  very  strange,"  he  said  weakly.  "But  she  was 
always  an  inexplicable  little  devil." 

"Everything  is  inexplicable,"  said  Ezra,  in  his  dreamy 
voice.  "Tell  me,  where  are  you  living  now?" 

"With  Carmen,"  said  Mortimer,  looking  bitterly  at  the 
floor. 

"Ah."     Then,  after  a  pause,  "Are  you  content?" 

Mortimer  answered  yes  with  a  gesture,  but  his  face 
belied  it. 

"Everything  seems  inexplicable,  I  meant  to  say,"  said 
Ezra,  closing  his  eyes.  "Nothing  really  is  so;  if  it  isn't 
Fernande." 

Mortimer  waited. 

"Here  is  a  strange  being  for  you,  Mortimer,  made  up 
of  the  remnants  of  a  dozen  persons,  and  with  nothing  of 
her  own.  Strange  being.  Created  for  me  to  know.  I 
hate  her  Mortimer,  and  to  hate  some  people  is  a  liberal 
education. 

"Do  you  know,  she  actually  tries  to  be  kind  to  me — 
and  she  has  no  more  natural  kindness  in  her  make-up  than 
a  hungry  snake.  She  tries  to  because  she  loves  me,  but 
love  doesn't  really  mean  that  to  her.  If  she  only  knew. 
She  wants  me  to  love  her,  you  understand.  If  she  under- 
stood, she  would  see  that  I  could  love  her  if  she  didn't 
try  to  be  kind.  She  does  little  things  for  me  now  and 
again.  Quite  meaningless ;  quite  valueless.  Makes  tender, 


268  THE  OUTSIDER 

artificial  inquiries  for  my  health ;  moves  a  cushion  for  me, 
sometimes  even  brings  me  a  glass  of  water.  And  she 
throws  an  infinitude  of  hysterical  tenderness  into  each 
act;  and  gloats  over  it;  and  gazes  yearningly  at  me.  False! 
And  she  expects  such  a  gesture  to  bring  tears  into  my 
eyes — gratitude — expects  me  to  be  touched  to  the  quick. 
It  drives  me  mad.  I  shall  go  away  soon.  She's  like  a 
starved  viper;  but  I  could  love  her  as  such.  Only  the 
other — she  makes  my  soul  sick,  sick,  sick.  Oh  God !  Why 
does  she  mix  things  up  in  that  way?  Why?  Because 
she's  a  woman.  That's  it. 

"You'll  be  thinking  that's  a  curious  outburst  for  the 
first  five  minutes  we  see  each  other  after  as  many  weeks. 
I  wanted  to  say  it  to  someone.  I've  already  said  it  to 
myself  several  times.  If  I  told  it  to  Fernande,  she'd  hiss 
in  my  face,  like  the  serpent  she  is.  She's  coming  up  now. 
Soon  you'll  understand." 

Fernande  came  in,  and  sat  down  on  the  divan  near  Ezra. 
She  put  a  question  to  him  with  her  eyes. 

"It's  alright,"  said  Ezra,  in  French.  "Mortimer  is 
my  friend.  We  '11  teach  him  how  to  pass  weeks  and  weeks. ' ' 

' '  You  've  never  smoked  opium  ? ' '  asked  Fernande.  Mort- 
imer shook  his  head.  "You'll  see  it  now,"  she  said.  "Will 
you  take  the  first,  Ezra?" 

"Yes,  please." 

She  settled  herself  comfortably  next  to  him,  stretching 
herself  along  the  divan  and  leaning  on  an  elbow.  She 
took  up  the  tube  that  Mortimer  had  seen  lying  on  the 
table,  and  now  he  saw  that  one  end  was  fitted  with  an 
ivory  mouthpiece,  and  that  near  the  other  end  what  looked 
like  the  rose  of  a  watering  can  was  fixed  on  one  side.  From 
the  table  Fernande  picked  up  a  thin  rod,  hooked  finely  at 
one  end,  then  opened  one  of  the  small  jars,  and  dipped  in 
the  hook.  When  she  brought  it  out  the  hook  was  covered 


THE  OUTSIDER  269 

with  a  blot  of  dark-brown  paste.  Mortimer  watched,  fas- 
cinated. She  carried  the  end  of  the  rod  over  the  flame 
of  the  tiny  spirit  lamp,  twirling  the  rod  deftly  between 
her  fingers.  The  brown  blot  of  paste  began  to  swell  and 
bluster.  A  thin  srnoke  went  out  of  it.  Still  she  turned 
the  rod  until  the  molten  paste  seemed  ready  to  drip  off 
the  end.  Then  she  carried  the  rod  to  the  rose  of  the  pipe, 
and  smeared  the  hot  paste  over  the  perforations.  Several 
times,  slowly  and  skillfully,  she  repeated  the  operations. 
Finally  she  handed  the  pipe  over  to  Ezra.  He,  leaning 
back  against  the  cushions,  took  the  mouthpiece  between 
his  lips  and  closed  his  eyes.  Fernande  carried  the  spirit 
lamp  to  him  and  he,  turning  the  rose  till  it  lay  over  the 
flame,  inhaled  steadily,  deeply,  direct  into  the  lungs.  He 
held  his  breath  for  nearly  thirty  seconds,  and  exhaled  de- 
liberately, a  pale  cloud  that  carried  to  Mortimer's  nostrils 
the  unfamiliar,  heavy  odor  that  he  had  first  observed  on 
entering  the  room  below. 

"That  was  a  good  one,"  whispered  Ezra.  "There's 
some  left."  He  inhaled  a  second  time,  as  slowly  as  he 
could,  and  blew  the  smoke  out  again.  "Another,"  he 
whispered,  handing  the  pipe  back  to  Fernande ;  then,  open- 
ing his  eyes,  he  looked  long  at  Mortimer,  smiling  queerly, 
as  if  at  a  memory. 

She  prepared  a  second  pipe  for  him.  She  forgot  Morti- 
mer in  a  grave,  impersonal  preoccupation.  Ezra  forgot 
him,  too.  Half  an  hour  passed  while  she  prepared  pipe 
after  pipe,  alternately  inhaling  it  herself  and  passing  it 
to  Ezra.  In  a  deadly  stillness  the  fine  haze  drifted  to- 
wards the  ceiling;  only  from  time  to  time  there  was  the 
tiny  crackling  from  the  bulb  of  opium  turning  and  blister- 
ing in  the  watery  flame  of  the  spirit  lamp.  Mortimer,  at 
the  other  end  of  the  divan,  leaned  against  the  wall,  and 
watched  them  for  a  time ;  till  the  unreality  of  their  actions, 


270  THE  OUTSIDER 

their  silence,  the  twilight  mist  in  the  room,  seemed  to 
dissolve  in  his  mind,  and  he  ceased  to  wonder  at  them  and 
himself. 

Ezra's  voice  came  out  to  him,  suddenly,  calm  and  clear. 

"Will  you  try  some,  Mortimer?" 

"No  thanks,"  he  said,  with  a  dry  throat. 

"It's  a  mistake  on  your  part,  Mortimer.  You've  got 
the  common,  ignorant  belief  that  this  stuff  drowses  you. 
It  doesn't.  It  only  gives  the  body  rest,  and  leaves  the 
mind  alone.  Try  it,  Mortimer." 

There  was  a  friendly  tone  in  Ezra's  voice.  The  mist 
dissipated  slowly,  and  a  feeling  of  rationality  returned  to 
Mortimer.  It  did  not  seem  such  a  desperate  business 
after  all.  He  looked  at  Ezra  and  Fernande  propped  side 
by  side  on  the  divan,  their  faces,  lit  a  lustrous  yellow, 
their  eyes  wide  open  and  calm. 

"Turn  out  the  electric  light,  Mortimer,  and  take  a 
couple  of  pipefuls,"  said  Ezra 

He  switched  off  the  light,  so  that  the  flame  of  the  spirit 
lamp  leapt  into  sudden  prominence  in  the  darkness.  "Will 
you  make  one  for  me,  Fernande  ? "  he  asked. 

"Make  yourself  comfortable,"  she  answered. 

He  gathered  three  cushions  under  his  elbow,  and  curled 
his  legs  up  on  the  divan.  Fernande  prepared  a  pipe  for 
him.  Tremulously  he  took  it  with  one  hand,  and  with 
the  other  held  the  spirit  lamp  under  it,  with  the  flame 
against  the  rose. 

"Breathe  deep,  straight  in,  steadily;  not  like  an  ordinary 
pipe,  into  the  mouth,  but  straight  into  the  lungs." 

He  inhaled,  and  choked  back  a  cough;  inhaled  again,  a 
sickly,  heavy  smoke. 

"Hold  it  awhile." 

He  held  it  and  breathed  out  slowly. 


THE  OUTSIDER  271 

"You're  not  sitting  well.  Stretch  out  your  legs,  and 
lean  back." 

He  obeyed.     There  was  nothing  new  to  feel. 

She  prepared  a  second  pipe  for  him,  and  a  third;  and 
with  the  third  he  began  to  feel  a  sweet  heaviness  in  his 
legs,  chiefly  between  the  knees  and  the  thighs,  a  dreamy 
dullness  that  pleased  him,  that  made  his  heart  inexpressibly 
lighter,  and  shot  a  wave  of  freshness  through  his  mind. 

"That's  good,"  he  said,  with  a  short  hysterical  laugh. 

"Try  another,"  she  said,  "then  we  can  all  rest  and  talk." 

She  gave  him  two  pipes  more.  With  every  pipe  a 
stronger  preliminary  sickness  passed  through  him;  and, 
when  it  was  gone,  the  torpor  in  his  limbs  deepened  a  shade, 
so  that  he  passed  his  hands  over  them,  eliciting  infinite 
pleasure  from  their  deadly  restfulness.  His  mind  was 
still,  and  lucid  as  crystal.  He  wanted  to  talk,  to  listen. 

"What  do  you  think  of  it,  Mortimer?" 

"It's  good,"  he  repeated. 

"It's  the  best  of  all,"  said  Ezra.  "Fernande  has  given 
me  everything  to  taste;  but  this  is  the  best.  Cocaine  is 
too  sharp,  and  it  is  too  physical.  Hasheesh  exhausts  you. 
You  laugh  like  a  madman;  the  ineluctable  joke  of  every- 
thing gets  at  you  for  the  first  time,  and  the  tears  of  laugh- 
ter hop  down  your  cheeks.  Afterwards  your  mind  and 
your  body  ache.  But  this  is  royal." 

He  spoke  in  English,  though  Fernande  did  not  under- 
stand him. 

"I  once  thought,"  he  went  on,  "that  opium  brings 
dreams,  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word.  It  does  not 
to  me.  But  it  brings  me  dreams  as  they  come  to  the  poet- 
philosopher.  I  have  evolved  four  complete  explanations 
of  the  universe,  all  different  and  all  true.  I  have  seen 
the  other  side  of  the  moon.  I  have  invented  an  arrange- 
ment of  corridors  of  mirrors,  through  which  light  must 


272  THE  OUTSIDER 

travel  for  nine  years.  You  save  your  memories  in  that  mir- 
ror. You  can  reflect  out  from  a  given  point  in  that  mir- 
ror-corridor, images  that  entered  years  ago.  You  look 
in  at  one  end  of  the  corridor  today,  and  go  to  the  other 
end  nine  years  later  to  catch  yourself  looking  in.  Tell 
me  what  Carmen  is  like.  She  is  a  good  child  and  I  wish 
her  well." 

"She  is  goodness  incarnate,"  said  Mortimer.  "Provi- 
dence isn't  a  patch  on  her." 

"All  men  flee  from  Providence  and  goodness,"  said 
Ezra,  aloud.  "You  can't  stand  Carmen  any  more,  can 
you." 

"It's  true,"  said  Mortimer.  "Her  goodness  is  killing 
me." 

"It  isn't  that,"  said  Ezra,  shaking  his  head.  "Don't 
ape  me,  Mortimer.  Why  can't  you  stand  Carmen?" 

"But  how  do  you  know  I  can't?" 

"You  wouldn't  have  been  here  if  you  could.  Tell  me 
now,  plainly  and  honestly,  why  you  must  leave  Carmen,  as 
I  must  leave — "  he  did  not  pronounce  the  name,  but  indi- 
cated Fernande. 

"I  didn't  know  till  you  asked  me,  Ezra,"  answered  Mor- 
timer, truthfully.  "Only  now  I  understand  that  I  must 
leave  her." 

"Tell  me  why,  then." 

"Because  I  have  been  long  enough  with  her.  The  won- 
der has  worn  off,  and  only  her  plain  love  remains;  she 
loves  me  not  as  a  stranger,  a  rare  event,  but  as  she  loves 
herself,  as  vulgarly,  as  fiercely.  Yes,  I  see  it,  as  vulgarly ; 
that  is  what  I  meant.  I  am  familiar  to  her  now,  she  has 
no  fear  of  my  presence.  She  does  a  hundred  little  things 
that  revolt  me ;  she  is  a  peasant." 

"All  women  are  vulgar,"  said  Ezra,  carefully.  "All 
good  women,  that  is.  A  good  woman  cannot  be  a  physical 


THE  OUTSIDER  273 

artistocrat  because  she  is  too  near  to  the  dirty  business 
of  every  day.  Only  perverted  women  are  physical  aristo- 
crats. All  good  women  who  love — remember  this — are  as 
vulgar  as  animals,  as  vulgar  as  the  earth,  and  as  strong." 

"I  fear  it  is  true,"  said  Mortimer,  thinking  it  over. 

"Of  course  it  is  true.  All  strength,  all  power  in  action 
— which  is  life  and  love — is  vulgar.  It  has  no  eyes  for 
delicate,  careful  harmonies.  It  is  fierce  with  the  desire 
to  achieve,  to  break  down,  to  recreate.  Love  is  aristocratic 
only  when  it  is  calf-love ;  it  is  vulgar  and  terrible  when  it 
is  man  and  woman  love.  But  I  have  done  with  love  of  any 
kind,  so  my  aristocracy  is  safe." 

"Then  I  am  at  fault,  not  she?"  asked  Mortimer. 

"No  one  is  at  fault;  but  as  far  as  the  purposeless  pur- 
pose of  life  is  concerned,  you  are  at  fault.  Don't  believe 
its  a  special  coarseness  in  her,  Mortimer,  because  she's  a 
peasant  girl,  because  she  has  no  sensibilities.  All  good 
women  are  coarse,  all  aristocratic  ones  are  ineffectual." 

"A  little  too  clever,  Ezra,  as  usual." 

"But  it's  true  that  good  women  mar  their  love  by  want- 
ing to  do  something  for  you.  Didn't  Emerson  say  that 
men  spoil  friendship  by  receiving  and  conferring  favors? 
Love  has  nothing  to  do  with  unselfishness  or  kindliness; 
that  is  an  economic  intrusion.  I'm  boring  you." 

"Speak  more  calmly,"  said  Mortimer,  delighting  silently 
in  the  peace  that  had  invaded  his  body.  But  Ezra  spoke 
no  more.  And  the  three  of  them  closed  their  eyes  and 
talked  wordlessly  with  themselves.  Only  Mortimer  could 
not  wholly  forget  himself,  for  soon,  he  knew,  he  would 
arise  and  leave  them.  There  was  no  power  in  the  world 
which  could  hold  him  to  this  way  of  living.  Still  this 
taste  was  good.  His  body  sang  gratitude  to  the  drug. 
How  strange  that  pleasure  should  arise  from  evil!  Why 
were  we  not  so  made  that  nothing  evil  could  appeal  to  our 


274  THE  OUTSIDER 

bodies?  What  well-being  was  in  his  body  and  in  his 
mind!  He  had  no  need  of  something  to  interest  and  dis- 
tract him.  Within  himself  was  a  well  of  life,  a  fulness 
that  sufficed  for  all  needs.  In  such  a  mood  he  could  pass 
years  away,  without  the  desire  for  action  or  stimulation. 
So  must  a  sate  animal  feel  when  it  lies  in  the  sunlight  and 
has  no  desires.  Now  he  understood  that  all  human  activity, 
all  creation  and  effort,  was  merely  an  escape  from  bore- 
dom. Could  men  feel  all  their  lives  as  he  felt  now,  there 
would  be  no  action,  no  tumult. 

The  minutes  passed.  The  tiny  spirit  lamp  burned  stead- 
ily. The  shadows  retreated  into  the  corners  of  the  room, 
and  a  dim  half-light  hung  round  the  table  and  over  the 
divan. 

' '  The  sense  of  passing  time, ' '  said  Ezra,  ' '  does  not  exist 
under  opium.  All  moments  are  alike.  How  then,  can 
there  be  a  past  or  a  future?  Nothing  has  taken  place, 
nothing  takes  place.  How  then,  can  there  be  a  measure 
of  time." 

Then,  later,  he  spoke  again. 

"Who  sees  and  who  is  blind?  Because  the  eyes  are 
sensitive  to  certain  wave-lengths,  we  use  them  as  a  measure 
of  the  truth.  Was  anything  ever  more  foolish?  What 
is  to  see,  to  feel,  to  hear?  To  vibrate  to  a  few  waves, 
and  is  that  all  there  is  in  the  wide,  wide  universe  ?  Folly ! 
And  for  this  men  torture  and  are  tortured.  God  forgive 
us  all!  I  say,  Mortimer." 

"Yes." 

"I  wonder  what  the  devil  I'm  going  to  do." 

"Why?" 

"I'm  at  the  end  of  things.  The  last  few  francs  went 
a  few  days  ago  in  the  management  of  this  household  and 
the  purchase  of  philosophic  indifference.  She,  too,  has 
reached  the  end  of  her  resources." 


THE  OUTSIDER  275 

"I  have  maybe  twenty-five  francs  in  the  world,"  sighed 
Mortimer. 

"Do  yon  think  there  is  a  mortal  within  a  radius  of 
eight  thousand  miles  or  so  who  cares  whether  we  live  or 
die,  Mortimer?" 

"About  one  or  two." 

"Accident.  To  be  loved  by  an  individual,  for  that  in- 
dividual to  care,  is  an  insult  to  us  on  the  part  of  Provi- 
dence. It  is  making  us  paupers,  dependent  on  accidental 
doles  of  love.  I  want  mankind  to  care  whether  I  live  or 
die.  Failing  that,  I'm  out  for  blood." 

"Where  will  you  find  blood?" 

"Aye,  there's  the  rub.  I  want  mankind's  blood,  that  I 
might  live.  I'm  at  the  end  of  things." 

A  silence  followed. 

"I  wouldn't  be  at  the  end  of  things  but  for  an  accident. 
Do  you  know  what  we've  been  doing?" 

"Of  course  not." 

' '  Quite  so.  Guess. ' '  Then,  after  a  pause :  ' '  Buying  and 
selling  dope.  Does  that  shock  you?" 

"Not  just  now." 

"No,  nor  me.  Would  the  miserable  world  which  con- 
demns me  find  me  a  better  means  of  living?" 

"I've  thought  that  over  myself,"  said  Mortimer. 

"Yes.  We  had  a  steady  supply  from  a  Chinaman.  Yes- 
terday, the  girl  tells  me,  he  disappeared.  There's  not  an- 
other soul  in  Paris  that  we  know  of  who  can  sell  us  the 
stuff." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"I  don't  know,  I  don't  know.  There's  a  dozen  people 
I  know  who  would  buy  any  quantity  we'd  bring.  We 
never  could  obtain  enough  of  it,  as  a  matter  of  fact.  But 
finding  that  stuff  when  you  don't  know  the  ropes  is  just 


276  THE  OUTSIDER 

hopeless — hopeless.  You'll  get  a  knife  in  your  ribs  sooner 
than  an  ounce  of  dope." 

"There's  no  chance  of  your  having  a  tip,  Mortimer?" 
asked  Fernande.  "A  friend  of  a  friend,  eh?" 

"No  one  that  I  can  think  of,"  said  Mortimer  untruth- 
fully. His  heart  was  beating. 

"Think,"  said  Fernande.  "You  never  can  tell.  A 
friend  of  yours  whom,  you  never  suspected — the  last  per- 
son in  the  world,  may  know  where  to  get  the  stuff.  Think, 
think  hard,"  she  added  earnestly. 

"And  you  can  sell  any  quantity,"  said  Mortimer,  quiver- 
ing, but  throwing  a  false  carelessness  into  his  voice. 

"Any  quantity,"  insisted  Fernande.  "We  used  to  get 
it  from  the  Chinaman  at  one  franc  a  gramme.  Half  a 
kilo  was  the  most  he  ever  brought  us  at  a  time.  "We  made 
a  thousand  francs  on  that.  If  you  could  bring  me  a  kilo, 
— half — I'd  go  half  and  half  with  you.  You'd  get  a  thou- 
sand francs  out  of  a  kilo." 

She  looked  intently  at  him,  as  if  she  knew  what  was  in 
his  mind,  as  if  she  knew  it  only  needed  temptation  enough. 

"What's  the  good,"  said  Mortimer  weakly.  "I  haven't 
the  faintest  notion  in  the  world  where  I  could  lay  hands 
on  a  gramme  of  it."  The  flame  of  the  spirit  lamp  danced 
fantastically  in  front  of  him.  A  thousand  francs!  And 
perhaps  Gorman  could  get  him  two  kilos.  Two  thousand 
francs!  Or  three  thousand  francs!  The  figures  repeated 
themselves  slowly  in  his  mind — three — thousand — francs! 
He  drew  sharply  between  his  teeth..  It  was  crazy.  Three 
thousand  francs — just  so.  And  days  of  aching  effort,  hun- 
ger, coarseness,  filth,  sickness,  for  dirty  meals.  How  good 
it  would  be  to  remain  one  whole  day  in  bed — in  some  new 
hotel,  in  a  big,  fresh  bedroom,  with  clean  sheets,  and  a 
fire,  and  a  good,  tasty  meal  brought  to  him;  one  day  like 
that. 


THE  OUTSIDER  277 

" Mortimer  wouldn't  do  such  a  thing,"  said  Ezra,  with- 
out malice. 

"Why  wouldn't  he?"  answered  Mortimer,  iu  anger. 
"Hasn't  Mortimer  a  belly  to  fill  which  the  world  ignores? 
Hasn't  Mortimer  to  stand  the  cheap  insults  of  the  world 
on  top  of  his  hunger?  "Whom  will  I  wrong?  The  world 
at  large?  So  much  the  better." 

"Tut  tut,  that  isn't  the  spirit  in  which  to  approach  it," 
said  Ezra,  laughing.  "It's  as  if  you  knew  it  was  a  mis- 
deed and  did  it  for  revenge." 

Mortimer  did  not  answer.  He  was  raging  within  him- 
self, and  at  himself.  He  was  a  fool,  a  suicidal  fool,  com- 
pact of  futilities.  The  passionate  wave  of  resentment  at 
his  own  psychology  rose  higher,  hotter,  with  every  effort 
he  made  to  stem  it.  Then  came  a  blinding  pain  through 
his  head,  and  passed,  and  then  a  second.  He  tightened  his 
lips  and  gripped  the  soft  cover  of  the  divan.  The  flame 
of  the  spirit  lamp  flew  round  the  room,  then  settled  down 
again. 

"I'm  going,"  he  said  with  set  teeth,  and  stood  up,  his 
legs  planted  firmly  apart.  The  place  sickened  him.  Ezra 
sickened  him.  He  would  have  liked  to  spit  at  Fernande's 
tight-drawn  pallid  face,  with  its  foul,  thin  lips. 

"Goodnight,"  he  said  and,  without  offering  his  hand, 
turned  and  went  out.  He  held  fast  to  the  shaking  rail  of 
the  steep  stairway,  and  leaned  against  the  wall  as  he  went 
down,  sliding  his  body  heavily  lest  he  should  fall.  The 
great,  bare  room,  with  the  mutilated  statues  and  casts, 
danced  up  and  down  with  every  footstep.  He  reached  the 
last  step  and  paused  to  recover  himself.  The  door  above 
had  opened  again,  and  in  the  glare  of  light  that  streamed 
from  it,  stood  Fernande,  staring  down  at  him.  Hastily, 
stumblingly,  he  picked  up  his  hat  and  coat  and  fled  down 
the  corridor.  His  footsteps  were  irregular  and  he  was 


278  THE  OUTSIDER 

aware  that  he  must  be  reeling,  for  now  his  right  shoulder 
and  now  his  left  buffeted  the  wall.  And  reeling  in  this 
way  he  stumbled  down  four  nights  of  stairs.  He  remem- 
bered enough  to  shout  "Cordon,  s'il  vous  plait,"  when  he 
reached  the  outer  door,  but  his  voice  was  hideous  to  him- 
self. Then  at  last  he  staggered  into  the  cold  street  and 
stood  as  if  paralysed  in  the  shadow  of  the  door.  In  his 
left  hand  were  his  hat  and  coat. 

Men  and  women  went  by,  ignoring  him.  A  rain  as  deli- 
cate as  mist  washed  his  face  and  neck  with  a  light,  chill 
hand.  He  felt  colder.  With  an  effort  he  leaned  away 
from  the  wall  and  put  on  his  coat  and  hat.  But  to  walk 
was  not  so  easy.  Step  by  step,  and  haltingly,  he  moved 
away  from  the  door  towards  the  corner  of  the  rue  Clignan- 
court.  The  passers-by  eyed  him,  and  shook  their  heads. 
He  turned  his  face  from  them,  an  infinite  contempt  in  his 
soul. 

At  the  corner  he  found  a  lamp-post  to  lean  against,  and 
here  he  waited  for  a  taxi.  He  thrust  back  furiously  the 
considerations  of  economy  that  rose  in  his  mind.  Should 
he  die  like  a  dog  on  the  streets? 

''Taxi!" 

The  taxi  halted.  "Passage  Bobillot,  near  the  Ecole 
Militaire. ' ' 

"How  much  will  you  give  me?" 

His  last  energies  boiled  up  wildly.  He  gripped  the  lamp- 
post with  one  arm. 

"You  swine,"  he  howled.  "Haven't  you  a  metre  on 
your  taxi?" 

The  chauffeur  started  the  machine  again.  Mortimer 
longed  for  the  strength  to  leap  at  the  brute.  "What's  the 
use,"  he  whispered  to  himself.  "The  world  is  that  way." 

A  second  taxi  passed. 

"Taxi.     Passage  Bobillot,  Ecole  Militaire." 


THE  OUTSIDER  279 

"How  much  will  you  give  me?" 

"How  much  do  you  want?" 

"Ten  francs." 

He  flung  himself  into  the  taxi,  and  as  it  rolled  downhill 
swallowed  hard  several  times  to  keep  down  his  sickness, 
hut  in  his  sickness  a  miserable  impishness  rose.  What  a 
joke  it  would  be  to  be  sick  in  the  taxi,  in  revenge  for  the 
heartless  profiteering!  But  there  was  no  relish  in  the 
joke.  He  felt  his  ribs  and  stomach  contracting  with  suc- 
cessive efforts.  He  fought  silently,  savagely — a  long  mer- 
ciless fight  that  lasted  till  he  staggered  into  the  room  where 
Carmen  sat  in  the  lamplight  waiting  for  him.  Only  when 
he  saw  the  terror  that  flashed  into  her  face  did  he  under- 
stand that  he  was  going  to  be  ilL 


CHAPTER  XV 

HE  WAS  hot  all  night  long,  as  though  a  light  fire  burned 
under  his  skin.  But  when  he  uncovered  himself,  he  shiv- 
ered with  cold.  It  was  impossible  to  strike  a  tolerable 
medium.  And  never  had  sleep  seemed  so  alien  to  his 
nature.  In  desperation  he  forced  himself  to  lie  stone  still 
for  weary  periods,  resisting  obstinately  all  temptation  to 
stir  a  limb,  to  turn  his  head.  He  tried  hard  to  believe  that 
the  preliminary  drowsiness  of  sleep  was  invading  him;  he 
struggled  against  all  intrusion  of  active  thought;  but,  tiny 
and  distinct,  the  germ  of  a  restless  idea  bore  up  in  the  dark- 
ness of  his  brain.  He  tried  to  close  his  consciousness  upon 
it.  It  persisted,  it  grew  larger,  it  thrust  back  the  drowsiness. 
And  again  he  was  hopelessly  awake,  his  brain  hammering 
clearly  under  his  skull.  He  groaned  in  his  impotence. 
He  would  never  sleep  again ;  he  had  lost  the  faculty. 

Far  into  the  night  footsteps  clattered  up  and  down  the 
narrow  stairs.  They  broke  into  his  illusions  of  drowsi- 
ness, and  started  trains  of  thought.  His  mind  was  a  tre- 
mendous serpent,  issuing  coil  by  coil  from  a  dark  forest, 
endlessly,  endlessly.  One  ring  straightened  itself  out  and 
another  slid  up  behind  it  from  an  exhaustless  reservoir. 
The  dull  infinitude  of  length  maddened  him,  and  every 
new  coil  was  an  ecstacy  of  irritation  and  astonishment. 

Two  or  three  times  Carmen  woke  and  asked,  very  softly, 
whether  he  slept.  He  thought  the  question  so  heartlessly 
stupid  that  he  would  not  answer,  lest  he  be  tempted  to 
shriek  at  her. 

It  was  the  tiny  germ  of  an  idea  that  kept  him  awake. 
He  did  not  know  what  idea,  it  was  an  indeterminate 
thought,  minute,  vicious,  that  lay  in  ambush  at  the  back  of 

280 


THE  OUTSIDER  281 

his  head;  and  as  soon  as  he  succeeded  in  reaching  mental 
quiescence,  it  asserted  itself,  as  a  glow-worm  asserts  itself 
when  the  light  dies  out.  If  he  could  only  know  the  sub- 
stance of  that  thought,  he  might  seize  it  and  destroy  it. 
But  it  was  beyond  reach.  It  bickered  at  him,  intangible 
but  omnipotent.  It  was  altogether  marvellous;  even  in 
the  madness  of  his  resentment  he  could  not  help  admiring 
its  vitality.  He  yielded  himself  to  an  observation  of  it, 
but  when  he  became  too  conscious  of  it,  it  disappeared, 
and  the  moment  he  forgot  it,  and  was  slipping  into  sweet 
restfulness,  it  was  there,  compact,  compelling.  "Damn 
you!"  he  said  to  it,  half-sobbing,  half -laughing. 

The  greyness  of  morning  found  the  room,  and  Carmen 
was  no  longer  there.  But  that  was  comprehensible  to  him, 
for  he  was  no  longer  himself,  so  why  should  Carmen  be 
there  with  him?  Moreover,  besides  not  being  himself,  he 
was  not  alone.  He  lay  to  one  side  in  the  bed,  to  make 
room  for  the  others,  which  were  himself,  for  they  had  rights 
equal  to  his  own.  And  they,  like  himself,  still  wanted  to 
sleep,  for  they  had  not  slept  all  night.  But  it  depended 
on  him  whether  they  slept  or  not.  Yet  they  so  pestered 
him  in  their  want  of  sleep  that  their  very  insistence  on  his 
sleeping  kept  him  awake. 

But  he  knew  he  was  a  single  person ;  his  multiplicity  dis- 
tressed him,  it  was  unfixed ;  now  they  were  fewer,  now  they 
were  more.  It  was  no  use  feeling  the  bed  with  his  arms 
and  legs,  spread-eagling  himself  to  touch  the  four  corners ; 
instinctively  he  drew  to  one  side,  for  they  were  there. 

Madame  Lebihan  came  in  and  spoke  to  him,  and  went 
out.  When  she  was  gone  he  asked  himself  whether  it  was 
true  that  she  had  put  her  hand  on  his  forehead,  or  whether 
someone  had  told  him  that  she  had  done  so,  which  was  quite 
different.  He  could  not  decide  on  this  point,  and  gradually 
it  lost  its  importance.  It  was  really  the  other  point  that 


282  THE  OUTSIDER 

he  wanted  desperately  to  settle ;  but  he  did  not  know  what 
the  other  point  was,  though  it  was  not  the  one  that  had  so 
cruelly  kept  him  awake  all  night. 

He  ate  something  which  Madame  Lebihan  brought  him 
and  administered,  and  he  hoped  dimly  that  the  others 
would  be  satisfied  with  what  he  was  swallowing,  if,  in- 
deed, he  was  swallowing  something,  and  it  was  not  Madame 
Lebihan  who  was  doing  all  the  swallowing.  He  laughed 
feverishly  at  the  thought  that  Madame  Lebihan  had  come 
up  into  his  room  in  order  to  swallow  something.  He  lay 
back  to  rest  after  he  had  finished  swallowing,  for  she  tired 
him,  and  again  he  fell  to  examining  curiously  himself  and 
the  others. 

The  room  was  light.  Across  the  torn  curtains  he  saw 
the  brick  wall  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  court,  with  dirty, 
curtainless  windows.  Some  windows  were  open,  and  on 
their  sills  lay  masses  of  grey  bedding,  half  in,  half  out. 
Such  windows,  he  thought,  were  the  jaws  of  the  house, 
swallowing  something  also,  for  all  things  eat  and  are  eaten. 
Only  his  window  was  closed,  and  his  room  was  eating 
nothing.  That  was  why  he  felt  after  a  time  that  it  was 
hungry.  He  wished  Madame  Lebihan  would  come  up 
again,  and  bring  it  something  to  eat. 

He  heard  Carmen 's  voice  suddenly.  The  room  was  dark, 
the  lamp  burned  on  the  table.  Her  voice  was  tender,  solicit- 
ous. She  was  kneeling  at  the  bedside,  her  face  pleaded. 
But  what  could  he  say  to  her.  He  thought  hard  for  some- 
thing to  tell  her,  and  at  last  found  it. 

''There's  some  money  in  my  coat  pocket,  Carmen,"  he 
said,  hoarsely.  "Go  and  buy  me  something  to  eat."  He 
would  not  mention  anything  about  the  room,  at  least,  not 
now ;  later  perhaps.  Or  tomorrow  he  would  have  her  open 
the  windows  and  shove  half  the  bedding  out,  for  the  room 
not  to  be  lonely  in  the  face  of  those  windows  opposite. 


THE  OUTSIDER  283 

She  talked  to  him,  so  gently,  with  all  the  sweetness  of 
her  love  in  her  voice.  "You  are  ill,  little  Mortimer," — but 
it  was  not  true.  He  was  only  exhausted.  He  let  her  speak 
on,  for  her  voice  was  good  to  him.  Then  he  ate,  and  knew 
he  was  eating.  And  he  remembered  dimly  that  it  was  long 
since  he  had  cried  Le  Flambeau!  in  the  streets,  and  he  won- 
dered who  had  taken  his  place;  for  the  places  in  the  world 
do  not  change.  Only  they  that  fill  them  vanish  and  are  re- 
placed. Yes,  he  pitied  the  one  who  had  taken  his  place,  for 
none  could  bear  it  as  he  had  borne  it,  treading  street  after 
street,  hour  long,  day  long,  shouting  till  the  voice  cracked, 
collecting  those  coins  till  the  pockets  became  heavy  and 
the  hands  greasy  and  the  street  lamps  were  lit.  And  all  the 
time  the  crowds  pouring,  pouring,  and  the  rain.  Poor,  poor 
devil  who  had  taken  his  place ! 

Someone  returned  afterwards  with  Carmen  and  woke 
him.  It  was  a  man  with  a  tawny  beard,  and  dressed  in 
dingy  black  clothes.  He  looked  like  a  doctor.  He  spoke 
with  Mortimer  while  Carmen  lingered  tremulously  on  the 
other  side  of  the  circle  of  lamp  light.  Mortimer  was  not 
interested.  When  the  man  was  gone,  Carmen  gave  him 
medicine,  which  he  swallowed  to  please  her,  and  because  he 
could  not  resist  her  voice.  The  medicine  had  a  sour,  thick 
taste,  and  lingered  foully  in  his  mouth  even  after  he  had 
drunk  a  cup  of  coffee. 

From  that  evening  till  the  afternoon  of  the  day  follow- 
ing, the  hours  danced  through  his  mind  like  an  irregular 
procession  of  wild  dervishes.  There  remained  a  distinct 
enough  element  of  sanity  to  make  him  understand  that  he 
stood  on  the  verge  of  insanity.  But  his  suspicion  was  con- 
founded in  the  night  with  the  furious  question  of  what  con- 
stituted sanity.  Academically,  at  different  times,  he  had 
argued  that  there  was  no  essential  difference  between  sanity 
and  insanity;  but  to  feel  it,  as  now,  to  question,  as  now, 


284  THE  OUTSIDER 

the  very  substance  of  his  consciousness,  was  a  new,  tem- 
pestuous realisation  of  this  truth.  To  say  "Nothing  exists 
outside  of  me"  is  an  intellectual  affectation.  To  feel  it  is 
insanity.  Yet  why  was  he  insane  if  at  last  he  was  feeling 
what  he  had  philosophically  believed? 

"There  is  nothing  outside  of  me,"  he  repeated  wildly. 
"Nothing,  not  even  a  void — not  even  nothing.  It  is  me — 
I  am  Carmen,  I  am  the  opium,  I  am  Paris,  I  am  good  and 
evil.  Can  I  do  wrong  when  I  am  alone  ? ' ' 

It  was  folly  to  argue  like  this,  for  he  knew  he  could  rise 
and  do  wrong.  Or,  stay,  perhaps  that  curious  expression  of 
multiplicity,  those  others  that  shared  the  bed  with  him,  they 
were  the  opium,  Ezra,  Carmen,  Gorman  all  of  them.  Ha! 
That  might  explain  it. 

But  after  a  time  even  this  irrational  effort  to  understand 
failed  him,  and  his  mind  became  the  anteroom  of  a  vast 
and  horrible  assembly  hall,  in  which  intolerable  and  unseiz- 
able  conceptions  met  and  mingled  and  bred  obscenely.  Be- 
yond the  anteroom  he  himself  could  not  pass ;  but  through  it 
filed  into  the  ghastly  half-darkness  beyond  a  dance  of  im- 
becilities, that  turned  gigantic,  bloated  faces  on  him  as 
they  retreated,  and  eyes  that  stared  at  him  only  to  reflect 
his  idiot  futility.  Should  he  dance  with  them?  Should  he 
become  as  they,  and  dance  with  them,  mouth,  gibber,  stare, 
idiotically  at  himself,  as  they  were  doing?  Still  he  shrank 
from  that,  for  the  kernel  of  rationality,  of  world-cunning, 
told  him  that  that  would  be  the  end.  If  he  joined  them, 
it  would  be  forever  and  ever — to  hop  round  the  assembly 
room,  abandoned,  hysterical,  his  teeth  fastened  on  his 
tongue,  his  hands  twisted  grotesquely,  and  the  bony  fingers 
as  long  as  those  of  the  demons  that  squatted  in  the  middle 
of  the  fans  there  above  the  yellow  line.  "Save  me,"  he 
screamed  to  himself,  but  no  sound  issued,  for  the  dance 
went  on  in  silence,  and  the  rhythm  was  slow  and  sick,  like 


THE  OUTSIDER  285 

the  swaying  of  fungus  under  the  scum  of  a  ruffled  ditch. 
He  was  glad  to  feel  horror  holding  him  like  a  death-chill, 
for  from  that  moment  when  he  felt  no  horror,  he  would  be 
one  of  them.  So  he  cowered  in  the  flickering  anteroom, 
and  shoved  them  off  with  his  crooked  hands,  feeling  the 
tenuous  filth  of  them  sliding  along  his  palms  and  contami- 
nating his  fingers.  So  he  would  resist  them,  for  all  eternity, 
if  need  were. 

But  they  become  more  active,  stronger.  They  crowded 
closer,  and  their  scummy  bodies  took  shape  and  solidity. 
An  arm,  a  tentacle,  was  laid  on  him,  and  the  touch  of  it 
shook  him  from  head  to  foot.  It  was  too  late,  he  knew  in 
his  despair,  yet  he  fastened  his  hand  on  the  tentacle,  and 
tried  to  tear  it  off.  It  clung  to  him,  shaking  him  fiercely, 
till  he  saw  the  sallow  face  of  Jeanne,  more  terrified  than  his 
own,  close  to  him,  and  stammering  words  of  death. 

"Monsieur  Mortimer;  there  is  no  one  in  the  house  but 
you.  It  is  dead.  It  is  dead." 

He  sat  up  and  watched  her  rave. 

"Monsieur  Mortimer,  I  implore  you,  come  to  my  room 
and  see.  0  God,  I  am  afraid.  I  dare  not  leave  alone.  I 
dare  not  stay  with  it. ' ' 

She  tore  at  his  arm,  as  if  to  pull  him  from  the  bed.  Her 
thin,  dishevelled  hair  hung  over  her  unwashed  face  and 
eyes ;  she  showed  her  dirty  teeth.  He  could  not  understand. 

"Monsieur  Mortimer,  come  with  me;  only  till  Madame 
Lebihan  returns.  Only  for  a  few  minutes,  Monsieur  Mor- 
timer, Monsieur  Mortimer. 

He  slipped  from  the  bed,  scarce  knowing  what  he  was 
doing.  She  gave  him  his  robe,  and  he  thrust  his  arms  into 
it.  Then  she  seized  his  hand  and,  barefoot,  he  went  after 
her,  astonished  to  feel  cold  solidity  under  his  feet.  She 
chattered  spasmodically  all  the  time,  as  she  led  him  up  two 


286  THE  OUTSIDER 

flights  of  narrow  stairs.  She  thrust  him  into  the  tiny  room 
before  her,  and  stood  near  the  door. 

A  wooden  floor,  a  dusty  window,  a  table,  a  small  iron 
bed,  and  something  on  the  tumbled,  dirty  bed.  He  went 
closer  firmly — a  dead  baby,  waxen,  the  small,  toothless 
mouth  open,  and  blackness  within ;  the  tiny  eyes  were  shut, 
the  two  tiny  hands  clenched  on  the  bosom.  He  looked  round 
from  that  to  Jeanne  and  back  again. 

"It's  dead,"  he  said. 

"Oui,"  she  whispered.    "It  isn't  my  fault." 

He  stared  long  and  curiously  at  the  yellow,  waxen  figure 
on  the  bed,  and  shook  his  head  slowly,  as  if  grave  thoughts 
were  passing  through  it — but  it  was  empty  of  thought.  He 
only  felt  a  dull  dismay,  pity,  helplessness. 

"What  shall  I  do?"  whispered  Jeanne. 

"There's  nothing  to  do.  Wait  till  Madame  Lebihan  re- 
turns. She  '11  know  what  to  do. ' '  He  sighed.  Poor  Jeanne ! 
Poor  Paris ! 

Jeanne  stood  at  the  half-open  door,  listening  for  foot- 
steps below. 

"I  think  she  has  come  in."  She  left  the  room  and  he 
heard  her  clattering  down  the  stairs.  He  took  a  step  closer 
to  the  dead  baby,  and  brought  his  face  close  down  to  it; 
then  straightened  himself  and  went  deliberately  out  of  the 
room,  back  to  his  own.  There  he  washed  himself,  dressed 
himself  carefully  and,  as  it  was  dark,  lit  the  lamp  to  wait 
for  Carmen.  He  heard  them  going  up  and  down  to  and 
from  Jeanne's  room,  but  no  one  interrupted  him  again. 
He  was  hungry,  but  he  would  not  move.  He  wanted  to  sit 
still  and  gather  himself  together.  A  swift,  icy  change  had 
come  over  him. 

He  was  a  different  man.  There  was  weakness  and  un- 
reliability in  his  body,  but  his  mind  functioned  coolly  and 
steadily.  There  was  one  thing  to  do.  When  Carmen  would 


THE  OUTSIDER  287 

return  it  would  be  time  to  start,  and  he  would  do  it,  not 
because  he  had  decided  on  it,  but  because  it  was  to  be  done. 
His  heart  was  as  of  stone.  There  was  no  argument  within 
him — there  was  grimness  and  the  will  to  live. 

He  heard  her  at  last.  She  opened  the  door  and  stood 
petrified,  parcels  in  her  hand,  to  see  him  out  of  bed  and 
seated  at  the  table. 

"Mortimer,  you  are  mad." 

She  dropped  the  parcels  on  the  table  and  threw  her  arms 
round  him. 

"I  am  better,  Carmen,"  he  said.  "Give  me  something 
to  eat,  quickly,  for  I  must  go  out  this  evening,  alone,  for  a 
couple  of  hours." 

"But  Mortimer,  little  Mortimer — 

"No,  no,"  he  said,  fiercely.  "Give  me  something  to  eat. 
What  have  you  brought  ? ' ' 

' '  I  have  fruit,  and  pate  de  foie  gras  and  bread — ' '  she 
answered  him,  frightened. 

"That  will  do."  Then  he  drew  a  deep  breath.  "What  did 
it  cost  you  ? ' ' 

"Mortimer,"  she  pleaded,  near  to  tears. 

"Damnation,"  he  shouted.    "What  did  it  cost  you?" 

"I  don't  know.    I  must  reckon  it  up." 

' '  Do  that  for  when  I  come  back ;  and  add  up  what  you  've 
spent  in  the  last  two  days,  what  you've  paid  the  doctor.  I 
shall  give  you  the  money  when  I  return  this  evening. ' ' 

He  knew  that  she  was  struggling  to  restrain  herself  from 
pleading  with  him  to  stay  at  home  that  evening ;  but  there 
was  a  ferocity  of  determination  in  his  face  that  she  had 
never  seen  before.  It  was  not  Mortimer 's  face ;  it  was  too 
hungry  and  desperate. 

He  ate  swiftly,  asked  for  water,  and  put  on  his  overcoat. 

"Mortimer,  darling,  when  will  you  come  back?" 

"What  time  is  it?" 


288  THE  OUTSIDER 

"Half-past  seven." 

"I'll  be  back  before  ten,  perhaps.  But  I'll  be  back." 
He  put  his  hand  into  his  overcoat  pocket  and  thrust  his 
fingers  into  a  heap  of  small  change.  ' '  Finished  with  that, ' ' 
he  said,  spitefully,  and  pulling  a  fistful  of  coins  from  his 
pocket,  he  hurled  them  into  a  corner  of  the  room.  He 
pulled  out  his  wallet ;  he  still  had  a  five-franc  note,  and  the 
card  that  Gorman  had  given  him. 

"Do  you  know  where  I  am  going,  Carmen?" 

"No,  my  darling." 

"I  am  going  out  to  bring  money — hundreds  and  hun- 
dreds of  francs — thousands,  maybe." 

Her  eyes  grew  rounder. 

"It's  true,"  he  babbled  on,  letting  himself  go,  "I  might 
bring  you  two  thousand  francs  tonight;  two  thousand 
francs. ' ' 

He  went  out  before  she  could  speak  again.  At  the  corner 
of  the  Avenue  he  found  a  taxi;  five  francs  would  about 
carry  him  to  the  Lapin  Cuit.  He  felt  better  now.  He  would 
not  go  under.  No !  As  the  taxi  rolled  tow.ards  the  Lapin 
Cuit  he  congratulated  himself.  There  was  confidence  in  his 
veins  now.  He  shook  his  fist  through  the  taxi  window. 

Gorman  was  at  the  Lapin  Cuit,  and  Mrs.  Cray  with 
him.  Mortimer  came  in  tempestuously.  "Ha,"  he  said, 
seeing  them. 

They  stared  at  him. 

"Good  God,  man,  what's  the  matter  with  you?"  asked 
Mrs.  Cray. 

Mortimer  ignored  her.  ' '  Come  out  a  moment,  Gorman, ' ' 
he  said  imperiously.  "Right  now." 

Gorman  rose  and  came  out  with  him. 

"Gorman,  I've  been  sick,  I'm  down  and  out,  clean  down 
and  out. ' ' 

Gorman  looked  at  him  in  the  light  that  filtered  through 


THE  OUTSIDER  289 

the  curtained  windows  of  the  Lapin  Cuit.  ' '  You  look  sick- 
er'n  a  dog,  Long,"  he  said. 

"Does  your  promise  hold  good.  Gorman?" 

"If  you're  in  need  of  money,  Long,"  said  Gorman,  and 
put  his  hand  in  his  breast  pocket. 

"Not  that,  Gorman,"  said  Mortimer,  swiftly,  "the 
other." 

"What  d'ye  mean?" 

"Listen,  Gorman,"  he  lowered  his  voice  to  a  whisper. 
"I  can  dispose  of  all  the  opium  you  can  get  me." 

Gorman  started. 

"Only  I  want  it  right  now,  Gorman,  right  now.  All  you 
can  get  me — two  kilos,  three  kilos,  four  kilos.  D  'ye  under- 
stand?" 

The  other  stared  fixedly  at  Mortimer. 

"Is  this  straight,  Long?" 

"Damn  you,  man,  d'you  think  I've  come  here  to  joke 
with  you?" 

"Long,  I  can  lay  my  hands  on  six  kilos,  without  a  word 
of  a  lie.  Tonight.  In  twenty  minutes  from  now. ' ' 

"Listen,  Gorman.  Leave  that  woman  and  let's  go.  I'll 
get  you  two  francs  a  gramme.  The  party  who  wants  it'll 
sell  it  again.  Only  it's  now  Gorman,  not  tomorrow." 

Gorman  hesitated,  wrestling  with  a  thought.  ' '  Why  can 't 
I  bring  the  woman  along  ? "  he  asked. 

Mortimer  revolted  from  an  intimacy  in  evil  with  that 
abominable  woman.  "I  don't  want  her  along,  Gorman," 
he  said  passionately. 

"Wait  a  minute,  Long." 

Gorman  went  in  and  returned.  "I've  told  her  I'll  be 
back  in  ten  minutes, ' '  he  said,  grinning.  ' '  I  should  worry. 
She'd  wait  a  week  for  me.  Now,  what's  the  dope?" 

"Can  you  get  that  stuff  in  twenty  minutes?"  asked 
Mortimer,  as  they  set  off  in  the  direction  of  the  rue  Royale. 


290  THE  OUTSIDER 

"Six  kilos,"  said  Gorman —  "and  I've  got  the  money  in 
my  pocket  to  pay  for  it.  We'll  get  a  taxi." 

"Right,  then.  Get  that  stuff  and  come  with  me,"  said 
Mortimer.  "  I  '11  bring  you  twelve  thousand  francs  for  it  in 
an  hour.  That's  three  thousand  for  each  of  us." 

They  found  a  taxi  in  front  of  the  Madeleine. 

"Place  de  la  Republique,"  said  Gorman. 

They  got  out  at  the  first  corner  of  the  square.  Mortimer 
noted  now  that  Gorman  was  nervous. 

' '  Long,  you  wait  for  me  here.  Find  a  new  taxi  and  hold 
it  till  I  come  back.  I'll  come  from  down  there — "he  pointed 
to  a  dark,  narrow  street  off  the  Boulevard  Magenta.  ' '  Keep 
a  lookout  for  me.  When  you  see  me  at  that  corner  get  the 
chauffeur  to  crank  up,  then  get  in,  and  leave  the  door  open. 
Keep  your  eyes  open,  Long.  I'll  be  about  fifteen  minutes. 
You'll  find  a  taxi  easy  in  that  time." 

He  looked  round  him  desperately,  and  set  off  at  a  long 
stride.  Mortimer's  spirits  rose  with  a  sense  of  adventure, 
but  something  of  Gorman's  nervousness  was  in  him.  He 
shivered  as  he  watched  Gorman  turn  the  corner  of  the 
narrow  street,  and  then  turned  to  look  for  a  taxi. 

The  great  square  was  tumultuous  with  crowds,  with 
trams,  with  taxis.  Periodically  black  crowds  were  disgorged 
from  the  white  subway  opening  in  the  centre  of  the  square. 
Mortimer  was  bewildered  for  a  moment;  then  he  fixed  his 
eyes  on  the  nearest  approaching  taxis,  to  see  if  their  flags 
were  up  or  down. 

He  hailed  half  a  dozen  of  them  before  one  of  them  stopped. 

" Montmartre, "  said  Mortimer.  "But  you  must  wait  a 
few  minutes  for  a  friend  of  mine"-  -  then,  as  the  driver 
shook  his  head  discontentedly,  "only  a  few  minutes.  You'll 
get  five  francs  tip." 

With  his  hand  on  the  door  of  the  taxi  he  stationed  him- 
self so  as  to  watch  the  corner  of  the  dark  street  down  which 


THE  OUTSIDER  291 

Gorman  had  disappeared.  In  his  nervousness  he  made  two 
or  three  false  starts ;  the  instructions  to  the  chauffeur  were 
on  his  lips  when  he  realised  his  mistake.  Then  at  last  he 
saw  Gorman,  beyond  all  doubt,  emerge  into  the  Boulevard 
Magenta,  and  stride  rapidly  in  his  direction. 

"Start  the  taxi,  chauffeur,"  he  said  hastily,  his  heart 
thumping.  "I  shan't  wait  any  longer." 

"What  address?" 

"Yes,  that's  right,"  he  gabbled.  "Boulevard  Roche- 
chouart,  corner  of  the  rue  Clignancourt.  Quick  now,  I'm 
late."  He  groaned  at  the  man's  slowness. 

He  stepped  into  the  taxi  and  closed  the  door  nearest  the 
sidewalk.  The  machine  began  to  tremble  as  the  chauffeur 
cranked  it.  Mortimer  opened  the  other  door  of  the  taxi  and 
signalled  out  to  Gorman.  It  worked  out  to  a  nicety.  The 
machine  started  with  a  jerk  when  Gorman  rushed  up,  flung 
the  bag  on  to  the  floor  and  leapt  in.  He  pulled  the  door 
to  violently. 

' '  Can 't  be  too  careful, ' '  he  panted.  ' '  That  was  sure  fool- 
ish, waving  your  hand  to  me  like  that.  I  saw  you  alright." 
He  stopped  to  get  breath.  "It  ain't  the  police  I'm  afraid 
of  so  much,  as  the  Chinks.  They'd  give  any  amount  to 
know  my  real  name  and  my  address.  Never  let  'em  know 
that,  by  God,  or  you're  done,  Long.  When  one  of  em's 
caught,  he'll  squeal  on  you  then,  sure  as  God  made  little 
apples.  Saves  'em  a  few  months,  maybe.  Where's  he 
going?" 

"Montmartre." 

"I  think  it's  alright,"  said  Gorman,  wiping  his  forehead, 
and  grinning.  "This  game  gives  me  cold  feet,  sometimes. 
At  first  I  used  to  change  taxis  half-way,  but  there 's  no  sense 
in  that." 

He  stooped  and  lifted  to  his  knees  the  bag  he  had  thrown 
into  the  taxi.  "There's  the  stuff,"  he  said,  and  took  out 


292  THE  OUTSIDER 

what  looked  like  a  number  of  batteries  for  electric  pocket 
lamps.  Mortimer  handled  them  curiously.  "Stuffed  full 
of  dope,"  said  Gorman,  tickled  at  Mortimer's  astonishment. 
' '  Cute  idea,  ain  't  it  ?  There 's  five  hundred  grams  of  dope 
in  every  battery;  fifteen  hundred  francs." 

They  were  drawing  near  the  rue  Clignancourt. 

"You'll  wait  at  the  corner  for  me,"  said  Mortimer. 
"There's  a  cafe.  It'll  take  the  woman  an  hour  to  bring 
me  the  money.  Is  that  alright?"  He  realised  he  was  ask- 
ing Gorman  to  take  a  good  deal  on  trust. 

"Sure,  it's  alright,"  said  Gorman. 

The  taxi  drew  up  at  the  corner.  "You  pay,  Gorman," 
said  Mortimer.  "I'm  broke.  There's  the  cafe." 

He  got  out  first,  and  whilst  Gorman  was  paying,  took  the 
bag  and  set  out.  Strange,  for  Mortimer  Long  to  be  walking 
through  a  street  in  Paris  with  a  bagful  of  opium ;  more  than 
strange — it  was  mad. 

He  kept  his  mind  off  the  subject — the  less  thought  the 
better.  He  walked  faster,  to  absorb  himself  in  action.  When 
he  reached  the  house  he  went  up  the  steps  at  a  run  that 
took  the  last  ounce  of  energy  from  him.  He  heard  Fernande 
coming  to  answer  the  bell.  He  panted,  and  thought  of  the 
surprise  in  store  for  her. 

' '  Good  evening,  Fernande. ' ' 

"Why,  Mortimer!" 

"It's  me  again.    On  urgent  business." 

He  went  in  ahead  of  her. 

"Ezra  up  there?" 

"Yes." 

* '  Come  up.    I  've  something  urgent  to  tell  you. ' ' 

They  went  up  hastily.  He  found  Ezra  exactly  as  he  had 
left  him ;  but  now  he  had  no  spirit  for  observation  or  com- 
ment. He  had  business  on  hand  that  was  burning.  He 


THE  OUTSIDER  293 

glanced  round  the  room,  offered  his  hand  to  Ezra  and 
turned  to  Fernande. 

"Fernande,  can  you  still  sell  all  the  opium  I  can  get 
you?" 

Ezra  started  up  on  the  divan.  Fernande  fixed  a  startled 
eye  on  Mortimer. 

"Answer  me  quick,  Fernande.  I've  brought  six  kilos  of 
it  with  me.  I  want  two  francs  a  gram  for  it  from  you.  All 
above  that  you  can  keep.  Can  you  still  do  it  ? " 

' '  Where  did  you  get  it  ?  "  she  asked,  in  a  voice  of  supreme 
astonishment. 

An  intolerable  excitement  was  pouring  through  Morti- 
mer's veins. 

"Never  mind  that,  Fernande."  He  opened  the  bag,  took 
out  a  battery,  and  pulled  away  the  cover.  "I've  got  a 
dozen  of  these,"  he  said,  showing  the  dark  brown  stuff 
packed  in:  "Five  hundred  grams  in  each."  His  hand 
shivered  so  that  he  almost  dropped  the  battery. 

' '  What 's  the  matter  with  you  ? ' '  asked  Fernande,  draw- 
ing back. 

"Never  mind  that,"  said  Mortimer,  stamping  his  foot, 
"do  you  think  I've  been  selling  opium  all  my  life?  Of 
course  I'm  excited.  Will  you  sell  this  stuff  tonight  and 
bring  me  the  money — yes  or  no?" 

"Of  course  I  will." 

"Remember,  I  want  twelve  thousand  francs  from  you. 
The  other  six  thousand  is  yours. ' ' 

"But  where  did  you  get  it?" 

"Fernande,"  said  Ezra,  sharply,  "don't  ask  any  ques- 
tions. Take  that  stuff  and  go."  His  voice  was  thin  and 
bitter.  "  Go  now, "  he  repeated.  "  These  damned  women, " 
he  growled  in  English. 

She  lifted  her  head  twice  to  speak,  then  took  the  bag 
and  went  from  the  room. 


294  THE  OUTSIDER 

"You  musn't  ask  me  any  questions,  Ezra,"  said  Morti- 
mer, seating  himself  at  the  other  end  of  the  divan  and  clasp- 
ing his  knees  fiercely. 

"No,"  said  Ezra.  He  could  see  that  Mortimer  was 
dangerously  near  to  a  nervous  collapse. 

"Don't  think,  don't  think,"  said  Mortimer,  to  himself. 
"Don't  think."  He  repeated  this  rapidly,  continuously,  to 
shut  out  all  possibility  of  reflection.  He  rocked  himself 
to  and  fro  and  began  to  mutter  the  first  nonsense  that 
came  into  his  mind. 

Only  not  to  think,  not  to  think. 

More  than  an  hour  must  have  passed — much  more.  Then 
came  the  footsteps  on  the  stairs  climbing  the  wall.  Fer- 
nande  burst  in,  her  thin,  sick  face  ablaze  with  yellow  color. 
She  threw  the  bag  on  the  floor  and  drew  from  under  her 
cloak  a  bundle  of  notes. 

"I've  got  it  all,"  she  said,  choking,  "all." 

The  two  men  fixed  their  eyes  on  the  bundle  of  notes.  Fer- 
nande  flourished  it  wildly  in  the  air,  then  knelt  down  sud- 
denly and  began  to  count.  "One  thousand,  two  thousand, 

.  .  .  eight  thousand  five  hundred,  .  .  .  eleven  thou- 
sand eight  hundred  and  fifty,  .  .  .  twelve  thousand — 
that's  yours,  Mortimer.  And  there's  six  thousand  for  us 
in  the  bag. ' '  She  looked  up  at  each  man  in  turn  and 
laughed  boisterously — then  drew  a  battery  from  under  her 
cloak,  and  threw  her  arms  round  Ezra — ' '  and  I  kept  one  of 
them  at  that,  little  Ezra. ' '  She  was  tigerish  in  her  jubila- 
tion. ' '  We  're  not  hungry  tonight. ' ' 

Mortimer  deliberately  took  up  the  notes.  He  cast  a  single, 
venomous  glance  at  Ezra  and  Fernande  in  turn,  and  grabbed 
the  empty  bag. 

"Mortimer,"  Fernande  had  put  a  hand  on  his  arm.  Her 
voice  was  triumphant. 

He  shook  her  off,  hissing,  "Let  me  go,"  and  without 


THE  OUTSIDER  295 

another  word  ran  from  them.  He  found  Gorman  in  the 
cafe.  He  made  no  answer  to  the  look  of  inquiry  on  Gorman  's 
face.  He  sat  down,  and  in  response  to  the  other's  im- 
patient questions,  counted  out  nine  thousand  francs  on  the 
table. 

"My  God,  man,  can't  you  answer  me?"  asked  Gorman 
angrily.  Mortimer  pushed  the  notes  over.  His  face  was 
white,  his  eyes  savage.  Without  a  word  lie  rose  and  rammed 
the  remaining  notes  into  his  pocket.  Then,  unheeding, 
feverish,  he  ran  from  the  cafe. 

He  found  a  taxi  on  the  Boulevard  Rochechouart,  While 
it  sped  homewards,  he  said  slowly,  over  and  over  again, 
" You've  asked  for  Paris;  now  you  have  it.  What  Paris 
offers,  take." 

Under  the  lamplight  in  the  centre  of  the  room  was  Car- 
men's patient  face.  But  the  sweetness  and  relief  that 
shone  on  him  suddenly  as  he  came  in  were  gall. 

"  I  've  brought  you  a  present,  Carmen. ' ' 

To  that  wild  voice  it  was  impossible  to  make  reply. 

"A  present,"  he  repeated,  crashing  his  fist  with  the 
notes  in  it  on  the  table.  "A  present  from  a  thief.  Take 
it." 

''Mortimer!"    She  had  risen,  she  was  trembling. 

' '  Take  that  money ! "  he  said  furiously.  ' '  It  belongs  to 
Paris,  so  it  belongs  to  you.  Take  it,  I  say." 

Awhile  he  glared  at  the  shrinking  girl,  his  face  tense 
with  rage  and  hatred;  then,  like  a  tornado,  he  was  gone. 
Rooted  in  terror  to  her  place,  she  heard  his  footsteps  crash- 
ing down  the  stairs;  but  in  the  street  he  did  not  hear  the 
cry  of  anguish  that  filled  the  room  a  moment  later.  "Mor- 
timer!" 


I 


CHAPTER  XVI 

HE  RAN  as  if  from  an  impurity.  He  did  not  care  whither 
he  ran.  He  only  felt  that  every  moment  of  motion  put  dis- 
tance between  him  and  an  abomination ;  and  without  note 
of  the  emptying  streets,  blind  to  all  but  an  inner  dread  and 
a  terrified  relief  he  ran,  and  hot  words  of  shame  and  amaze- 
ment flashed  to  and  fro  in  his  mind. 

It  was  incredible !  He  clung  at  times  to  the  word  ' '  In- 
credible." It  had  not  happened,  it  could  not  have  hap- 
pened. It  was  outside  the  cycle  of  possibilities.  And  he 
walked  faster,  and  rubbed  his  hands  as  if  to  cleanse  them ; 
and  he  longed  for  a  great  wind. 

Was  this  he,  Mortimer  Long?  This  motley  vagabond, 
this  seller  of  opium,  this  ragged  companion  of  thieves  and 
drug  fiends  ? 

The  very  clothes  he  wore  were  contaminated.  He  longed 
to  run  naked  till  the  night  was  gone,  until,  bathed  in  chilly 
dew,  he  came  into  a  clean  dawn. 

Then  an  implacable  question  took  to  hammering  under  his 
skull.  "How  have  I  come  to  this?  How  have  I  come  to 
this?" — and  there  was  no  answer;  there  was  not  a  single 
excuse,  not  a  grain.  He  writhed  in  his  walking,  and  hated, 
with  a  vehement  hatred,  himself,  his  body,  his  mind. 

He  returned,  for  a  moment's  agonising  relief,  to  the  word 
' '  incredible. ' '  What  sophistry  had  turned  his  mind  ?  What 
sickness  of  brain  and  eye  had  twisted  his  life  to  this  shape  ? 

And  rage  turned  from  himself  and  against  others.  Who 
were  these  people,  this  shabby,  grimacing  mob,  these  Ezras, 
and  Grays  and  Gormans  and  Fernandes?  What  had  he, 
Mortimer  Long,  to  do  with  them?  Was  he  mad?  Was  he 
mad  ?  He  cursed  them  suddenly  as  he  had  cursed  himself, 

296 


THE  OUTSIDER  297 

with  an  abysmal,  wordless  curse,  fiery  as  shame  and  bitter 
as  gall !  Paris ! 

Oh,  they  had  taken  him  and  bound  him,  and  his  limbs 
were  tangled  in  the  meshes  forever,  if  he  did  not  tear  them 
now.  But  he  would  tear  them,  with  all  his  strength ;  he 
would  break  through  and  be  free,  he  would  fly  from  them 
forever  and  forever. 

No,  they  could  not  hold  him.  He  realised  this,  slowly, 
and  with  surging  certainty.  And  the  higher  the  certainty 
rose,  the  wilder  grew  his  horror  at  the  life  he  had  escaped 
from,  and  as  men  grow  sick  with  fear  at  the  memory  of  a 
danger  which  they  barely  survived,  so  his  heart  grew  sick 
at  the  memory  of  the  mob. 

"I  am  free,"  he  said,  again  and  again.  "I  am  free." 
There  was  a  hysteria  of  joy  in  the  words. 

Unknown  to  himself  his  footsteps,  led  by  a  subtle  in- 
stinct, had  followed  the  path  he  had  traced  on  that  night 
of  exultation,  the  first  night  he  had  spent  in  Paris  as  a  free 
man.  He  found  himself  in  the  net  of  streets  between  the 
Hotel  de  Ville  and  the  Place  de  la  Republique.  The  coinci- 
dence startled  him,  and  then  he  understood  that,  inspired 
by  a  strength  he  could  not  direct,  he  was  retracing  in  minute 
and  desperate  revision  the  drunken  path  of  that  night. 

What  had  he  dreamed  that  night?  A  dream  of  ease  and 
fruitless  leisure,  of  calm,  strifeless  days,  calm,  strifeless 
years,  a  life  of  effortless  silence,  passed  in  obscure  content. 
He  had  turned  from  the  world  he  had  known  till  then,  the 
world  of  his  parents,  because  he  hated  its  narrowness,  its 
puritanical  stupidity. 

How  clearly  he  understood  the  folly  that  was  born  of 
that  hatred.  He  knew  himself  better  now.  Was  he  not  a 
child  of  his  race  ?  Was  he  not  a  puritan  ?  Was  there  not 
in  his  veins,  as  in  the  veins  of  his  fathers,  a  loathing  for  the 


298  THE  OUTSIDER 

drifting,  careless  ways  of  life,  a  will  to  fashion  himself  and 
the  world  according  to  his  lights? 

No,  he  had  not  hated  them  because  they  interfered  with 
the  drift  of  life,  and  banded  themselves  together  to  alter 
men's  lives  and  direct  men's  thoughts;  he  hated  them  be- 
cause they  were  stupid.  He  did  not  hate  puritanism  and 
human  interference  in  human  affairs;  he  only  hated  their 
puritanism,  their  interference. 

For  he  hated,  as  bitterly  as  he  hated  his  father's  world, 
this  world  of  Ezra's  and  Gorman's,  this  shifty,  planless 
world,  even  with  its  exultations  and  joys,  for  it  was  not  a 
world  of  strength,  but  a  world  of  putrefaction ;  the  gleams 
of  beauty  that  shone  through  it  were  evil,  for  they  were 
strengthless. 

For  good  or  evil  he  knew  himself  now.  He  could  not 
move  drowsily  with  the  tide.  The  blood  of  many  genera- 
tions bade  him  struggle  and  swim.  It  was  a  blind  instinct. 
It  was  senseless  and  animal,  a  fiery  desire  to  create  he  knew 
not  why,  he  knew  not  what.  It  was  derisive  to  men  like 
Ezra.  To  himself  it  was  life,  and  each  man  must  live  his 
own  life.  .  .  . 

He  was  climbing  the  last  steep  way  to  the  summit  of 
Montmartre.  He  became  aware  that  he  was  abominably 
tired.  But  he  would  go  on  till  he  could  look  again  on  the 
city,  and  he  dragged  out  the  last  footsteps  till  he  came  to 
the  low  wall  that  runs  like  a  rampart  in  front  of  the  church. 
Behind  him  was  the  Sacre  Co3ur  and  at  its  foot  the  statue 
of  the  Chevalier  de  la  Barre. 

His  heart  was  lighter,  as  if  after  a  strong  renunciation. 
He  looked  at  the  black  circle  far  away  below  him,  and  he 
felt  neither  bitterness  nor  resentment.  He  could  not  hate 
it,  for  it  was  mute  to  him,  and  there  is  no  hatred  against 
the  powerless.  He  could  muse  on  it  and  wonder ;  he  could 
try  to  understand  what  had  fooled  him  into  believing  he 


THE  OUTSIDER  299 

could  be  a  part  of  it.  He  could  even  respect  it,  at  a  dis- 
tance, and  pay  it  the  homage  of  a  stranger.  For  he  had  no 
quarrel  with  Paris  as  long  as  it  did  not  tempt  him ;  and  all 
temptation  was  past  now. 

"It  is  time  to  go  to  sleep,"  he  said  suddenly,  and  realised 
at  the  same  instant  that  he  had  nowhere  to  sleep.  He  was 
not  startled,  but  he  thought  awhile,  dismayed  superficially 
by  the  prospect  of  a  night  on  the  streets.  He  walked  hur- 
riedly up  and  down  in  front  of  the  tortured  statue  of  de  la 
Barre,  and  thrust  his  hands  into  his  overcoat  pocket. 

His  fingers  played  among  a  little  heap  of  copper  coins. 
An  idea  came  to  him.  How  much  had  he  ?  He  rummaged 
every  coin  into  his  grasp  and  counted  out  the  result  under 
a  lamp ;  one  franc  and  eighty  centimes.  He  shook  his  head, 
and  thought  hard.  What  could  he  do  with  one  franc  and 
eighty  centimes? 

And  then  he  remembered  and  laughed.  If  he  could  find 
the  place,  it  would  be  a  fitting  farewell  to  Paris,  a  last  night 
in  her  embrace ;  and  the  price  was  one  franc. 

He  walked  back  to  the  other  side  of  the  church  and  into 
the  Place  des  Tertres.  An  alley  that  went  out  from  one 
corner  terminated  in  a  flight  of  steps.  He  went  down  the 
steps  and  at  the  bottom  turned  to  the  right  down  a  second 
flight.  Halfway  down  the  second  flight  he  found  it.  The 
door  of  the  hovel  was  open.  In  the  peeling  corridor  a  jet 
burned.  Now,  at  night,  it  looked  less  hideous  than  on  the 
sunlit  day  when,  in  the  company  of  Ezra,  he  had  seen  it 
first. 

He  knocked  on  the  door  that  leaned  from  its  upper  hinge, 
and  the  door  rattled  under  his  hand.  A  door  opened  at 
the  other  end  of  the  corridor  and  a  fat  woman  issued  from 
it.  Her  hair  was  tousled  over  her  hoggish  face.  Her  clothes 
were  dirty  and  tattered. 

"What  is  it?"  she  snarled. 


300  THE  OUTSIDER 

"I  want  a  room."  said  Mortimer,  and  approached  her. 

She  held  out  her  grubby  hand. 

"Ung  Frang,"  she  said,  with  a  Gascon  accent. 

Mortimer  pulled  out  the  change  and  counted  a  franc  la- 
boriously. 

"He  has  lots  of  time,"  she  muttered,  waiting,  then 
snatched  the  money  and  dropped  it  into  a  pocket.  With- 
out a  word  she  turned  and  went  up  the  stairs.  Mortimer 
watched  her,  puzzled.  At  the  top  she  turned  round. 

"Afais  nong  de  Dieu!"  she  cried.  "You  want  a  room, 
don't  you?" 

He  understood  he  was  meant  to  follow,  and  he  mounted 
the  steps  after  her.  In  the  semi-darkness  he  bumped 
against  her  and  recoiled,  too  disgusted  to  apologise.  She 
did  not  seem  to  mind. 

"Here,"  she  said,  opening  a  door.  He  felt  the  wall  and 
found  the  door.  As  he  shuffled  past  her,  the  full  blast  of 
her  breath  covered  him  with  an  alcoholic  closeness.  He 
slammed  the  door  to  behind  him,  and  struck  a  match ;  then 
he  heard  the  door  being  locked  behind  him.  He  understood. 

He  was  surprised  to  find  a  bed.  It  was  all  he  wanted 
and,  somehow,  more  than  he  had  expected.  He  felt  his  way 
to  it,  and  examined  it  briefly  by  the  light  of  a  second  match. 
It  was  the  simplest  construction  that  could  lay  claim  to  the 
name  of  bed ;  but  it  possessed  the  essential,  namely,  a  toler- 
ably soft  repository  for  the  body  slightly  elevated  from  the 
floor.  There  was  a  tattered  blanket,  a  mattress,  but  neither 
cushion  nor  sheets. 

He  took  off  his  coat  and  shoes,  wrapped  the  blanket 
round  him  like  a  toga,  and  lay  down  on  the  crackling  mat- 
tress. Before  he  knew  it,  he  slept. 

He  woke  to  a  grey  light  that  came  in  through  a  dirty 
window.  His  body  was  stiff  and  grubby :  slowly  he  looked 
round  the  room,  and  noted  the  rotten  floor  and  peeling 


THE  OUTSIDER  301 

walls.  In  a  corner  of  the  room  stood  a  three-legged  chair. 
This  and  the  bed  comprised  the  entire  furniture. 

He  rose  and  threw  off  the  blanket  in  horror.  Tie  shook 
himself  and  shivered ;  what  was  the  time  ?  He  looked  down 
at  his  hands,  and  their  filthy  greasiness  revolted  him.  "Where 
could  he  wash?  He  was  disgusted  with  himself.  Soon, 
soon  all  this  would  change. 

He  went  to  the  door  and  remembered  it  was  locked.  Even 
that  blanket  represented  temptation  to  someone.  He  kicked 
at  the  door  and  shouted,  shivering  with  the  cold. 

The  fat  woman  opened  the  door  at  last. 

"I  want  to  wash,"  said  Mortimer. 

"Trois  sous,"  said  the  woman,  curtly. 

Mortimer  nodded. 

"Downstairs,"  said  the  woman.  "And  take  your  things 
with  you." 

Mortimer  obeyed  and  followed  her  down  into  a  kind  of 
pantry.  There  the  woman  gave  him  a  towel,  dirty  but  dry, 
and  a  fragment  of  yellow  soap.  She  stood  by  while  he 
washed  and  collected  the  toilet  articles  when  he  had  finished. 

He  was  better  now,  but.  a  dreadful  day,  he  knew,  was  in 
front  of  him,  and  the  most  dreadful  part  of  it  would  be  the 
next  hour.  He  went  out  and  down  the  stairs  into  the  rue 
Rochechouart.  A  jeweller's  clock  pointed  to  eight  o'clock. 
He  would  have  liked  a  cup  of  coffee,  but  now  there  re- 
mained to  him  only  sixty-five  centimes.  Thirty  he  would 
need  for  the  subway,  and  the  rest  he  could  not  spend. 

In  some  twenty  minutes  he  stepped  out  of  the  metro  at 
the  Ecole  Militaire.  His  heart  was  uneasy,  but  his  mind 
was  cold  and  firm.  He  was  sorry  for  Carmen,  sorry  for 
the  pain  he  was  going  to  inflict  on  her  now.  But  the  one 
fear  that  had  haunted  him  most  existed  no  longer.  He 
would  not  be  leaving  her  penniless;  she  had  the  money  he 
had  given  her  the  night  before. 


302  THE  OUTSIDER 

And  then  came  over  him  the  realisation  of  the  night  she 
must  have  spent,  and  his  heart  contracted.  But  what  could 
he  do  ?  He  was  done  with  that  life.  Not  Carmen  nor  any- 
one else  could  ever  bring  him  back  to  it.  He  repeated  this 
firmly  to  himself  when  he  knocked  at  her  door  and,  with- 
out waiting  for  -an  answer,  went  in. 

When  he  came  in  she  was  lying  on  the  bed,  fully  dressed. 
She  started  up  with  a  gasp,  and  her  white,  drawn  face  was 
distorted  in  a  cruel  mingling  of  relief  and  incredulousness. 
They  looked  at  each  other  wordlessly. 

"Good  morning,"  said  Mortimer,  as  if  to  dispel  a  sense 
of  unreality. 

"Good  morning,"  she  whispered,  mechanically,  then  rose 
from  the  bed  and  straightened  her  dress.  He  saw  that  she 
had  already  prepared  to  leave,  for  she  was  washed,  and  her 
hair  was  done.  But  on  her  face  was  a  stupor  that  wrung 
his  heart.  The  thought  of  the  night  she  had  passed  made 
him  shudder. 

Neither  of  them  could  find  anything  to  say.  Mortimer's 
resolution  was  plain  on  his  face,  and  he  knew  that  she  un- 
derstood. At  last  he  gathered  himself  to  speak. 

"I  am  taking  all  my  things  away  today,  Carmen,"  he 
said,  in  a  dull,  cracked  voice. 

"Oui,"  she  whispered. 

' '  Are  any  things  of  mine  out  at  the  laundry  ? ' ' 

She  shook  her  head. 

He  watched  her  awhile. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  work  this  morning?" 

She  shook  her  head  again. 

Then  he  realised  that  if  he  stayed  any  longer  pity  for 
her  would  prove  too  strong  for  him.  With  a  brutal  effort 
he  began  to  collect  his  things.  There  was  something  gra- 
tuitously cruel,  he  thought,  in  rummaging  for  his  possessions 
in  the  drawers  with  her  wide,  unmoving  eyes  on  him,  but  he 


THE  OUTSIDER  303 

forced  himself  to  continue,  and  held  back  the  desire  to  give 
words  to  his  pity,  to  enter  into  explanations,  to  soften  his 
behaviour.  That  way,  he  knew,  lay  failure. 

So  he  kept  his  face  averted  from  her  and  brought  the 
few  things  from  the  cupboard.  Poor  little  Carmen,  good 
little  girl.  There  would  be  a  horrible  loneliness  in  this  place 
for  her.  He  hardened  himself.  These  reflections  were  fu- 
tile torture  to  him. 

He  brought  in  the  two  bags  and  began  to  pack.  Not  a 
sound  came  from  Carmen  and  he  himself  choked  back  tho 
heavy  sighs  that  oppressed  him.  It  was  painful,  unbear- 
ably painful,  and  the  worst  was  yet  to  come.  He  sought  to 
prolong  the  packing.  He  went  into  the  tiny  anteroom  and 
shaved  hurriedly,  thinking  all  the  time  of  Carmen  standing 
in  the  next  room.  Then  he  put  on  a  clean  collar  and  dusted 
his  clothes. 

He  was  ready. 

"I  must  go,  Carmen,"  he  said,  and  felt  himself  helpless 
in  front  of  her. 

"Oui,"  she  whispered. 

He  explained. 

"I  am  taking  my  typewriter  out  just  now  to  sell  it,  then 
I  shall  come  back  for  my  other  things,  sometime  during 
the  day." 

A  momentary  distortion  passed  over  her  face  and  was 
gone.  She  put  her  hand  to  her  mouth  as  if  to  keep  herself 
from  crying. 

"Where  are  you  going,  Mortimer?" 

"I  don't  know  yet." 

"You  will  never  come  back?" 

"No,  never."  He  said  this  with  unnecessary  emphasis, 
and  in  it  she  felt  a  touch  of  weakness ;  but  she  was  too  weak 
herself  just  then.  She  only  put  both  hands  in  front  of  her 
eyes,  as  he  had  seen  her  do  that  night  near  the  Hotel  Pi- 


304  THE  OUTSIDER 

cault,  when  he  had  sought  to  break  from  her.  The  resigna- 
tion in  the  gesture  relieved  him  and  cut  him  at  once.  Words 
were  trembling  on  his  lips ;  he  would  have  liked  to  comfort 
her,  but  it  was  folly. 

" Adieu,  Carmen,"  he  said,  suddenly. 

She  dropped  her  hands,  and  the  wide-open  eyes  showed 
that  only  now  did  she  understand.  There  was  a  hunted 
perplexity  in  her  eyes. 

"My  God!"  she  said,  tearing  the  fingers  of  her  hands 
in  an  extremity  of  despair.  Her  voice  quivered.  "Morti- 
mer, tell  me  where  you  are  going." 

"Carmen,  I  don't  know."    He  felt  his  eyes  smarting. 

"Will  you  tell  me  when  you  have  found  a  room?" 

He  did  not  answer. 

' '  You  must  tell  me,  Mortimer.  I  swear  by  my  mother  that 
I  will  not  molest  you.  I  only  want  to  know  where  you  are. 
I  know,  it  is  finished ;  only  promise  me  to  let  me  know  where 
you  are.  Mortimer,  Mortimer." 

Still  he  did  not  answer. 

"Mortimer,  you  shall  not  see  me  again.  I  swear  I  shall 
not  molest  you;  by  my  dead  mother." 

He  knew  her  oaths  were  vain;  she  would  not  be  able  to 
help  herself.  His  incredulousness  was  plain  to  her.  Sud- 
denly she  dropped  on  her  knees  to  him,  and  tugged  at  his 
coat. 

"Let  me  know  where  you  are  going,"  she  said,  desper- 
ately. "I  must  know.  You  will  tell  me  or  not  go  from 
here." 

The  blood  left  Mortimer's  face;  he  stooped  and  tried  to 
lift  her,  but  she  wound  her  arms  round  his  knees. 

"You  will  tell  me  where  you  are  going,  you  will  tell  me 
where  you  are  going. ' ' 

' '  Yes, ' '  he  said,  choking.    ' '  Get  up. ' ' 

She  rose  to  her  feet,  panting,  dishevelled. 


THE  OUTSIDER  305 

"Good  bye,  Carmen,"  he  said  again.  The  promise  he  had 
given  made  him  firm  suddenly.  She  made  as  if  to  kiss  him, 
but  he  stepped  back  from  her,  for  he  knew  that  if  she  kissed 
him  she  would  break  down ;  he  only  took  her  hand  and  she 
pressed  it  for  an  instant ;  then  he  turned  swiftly  and  went 
into  the  little  room,  closing  the  door  behind  him.  Swiftly 
he  picked  up  the  typewriter  and  ran  down  the  stairs.  In 
the  street  he  breathed  like  a  man  emerging  from  physical 
torture. 

The  edge  of  the  typewriter  resting  on  his  hip  hurt  him 
as  he  walked,  but  merely  physical  pain  was  a  relief  just 
then ;  and  he  could  not  stop  lest,  after  all,  Carmen  should 
have  decided  to  follow  him.  At  the  corner  of  the  Boulevard 
he  put  the  machine  down  and  waited  for  a  taxi. 

He  sold  the  typewriter  to  a  firm  in  the  rue  Richelieu  for 
eight  hundred  francs. 

The  taxi  had  cost  him  twelve  francs  fifty.  He  dismissed 
it  as  soon  as  the  machine  was  sold,  breakfasted  lightly  in  a 
cafe,  and  set  out  Montmartrewards  in  search  of  a  room. 
For  the  first  time  in  many  weeks  he  felt  human  again. 

He  spent  the  whole  morning  on  the  slopes  above  the 
Northern  outer  Boulevards,  wandering  from  hotel  to  hotel. 
He  would  not  pay  more  than  a  hundred  and  twenty-five 
francs  a  month,  and  rooms  at  that  price  were  seldom  free. 
But  by  noon  he  had  picked  on  a  tiny  room  on  the  first  floor 
of  a  hotel  in  the  rue  Tholoze.  The  place  was  clean ;  he  had 
some  doubts  as  to  the  nature  of  the  female  clientele,  but 
no  cheap  hotel  in  Paris — and  few  of  the  expensive — is  free 
from  that  danger. 

Early  in  the  afternoon,  after  a  light  lunch,  he  set  out  on 
foot  as  far  as  Carmen's  hotel,  and  hired  a  taxi  on  the  bou- 
levard near  by.  He  went  up  to  the  room.  Carmen  was 
not  there,  so  he  left  a  note  with  his  new  address  on  the 
mantlepiece.  He  had  only  a  momentary  temptation  to 


306  THE  OUTSIDER 

break  his  promise,  but  a  lie  at  that  moment  was  the  last 
baseness.  The  chauffeur  had  come  up  with  him  to  help 
him  with  the  book-case,  and  now  Mortimer  felt  that  there 
was  a  kind  of  desecration  in  the  presence  of  this  stranger 
at  his  departure.  The  room  suddenly  looked  bare  when 
the  book-case  was  removed  from  the  little  table  in  the  cor- 
ner. Mortimer  sighed  deeply  despite  himself,  and  won- 
dered why  he  regretted  this  room.  He  looked  round  a  last 
time  when  he  returned  for  the  two  grips ;  what  had  he  to  do 
with  this  solitary  looking  room  that  in  leaving  it  he  should 
be  heavy-hearted?  He  thought  of  the  lonely  nights  that 
Carmen  would  pass  here.  How  would  she  bear  them  ?  No, 
it  would  not  do  to  remember  these  things.  He  went  out  reso- 
lutely and  gave  the  chauffeur  his  new  address  in  the  rue 
Tholoze.  "Finis." 

His  new  room  pleased  him  when  he  had  installed  the 
book-case  on  the  mantlepiece  opposite  the  bed.  There  was 
only  room  enough  to  pass  sideways  between  the  bed  and 
table,  but  that  only  added  snugness.  The  bed  was  simple 
and  hard,  which  was  what  he  liked.  A  very  ancient  clock 
stood  on  the  mantlepiece  (in  every  room  of  every  cheap 
hotel  in  Paris  there  stands  an  old  gilt  clock  that  does  not 
go),  but  this  he  took  out  to  the  landlady.  Then  he  returned 
to  his  room  and  changed  his  underwear.  He  was  a  new  man. 

Towards  seven  in  the  evening  he  went  out  to  look  for  a 
convenient  restaurant.  A  number  of  restaurants  on  the 
rue  Lepic  looked  too  expensive  according  to  the  menus 
pasted  on  the  windows — boiled  beef  and  potatoes  ranked  at 
two  francs ;  the  restaurant  he  would  choose  would  have  to 
offer  boiled  beef  and  potatoes  at  one  franc  twenty-five,  and 
such  a  restaurant,  "Taverne  Bostvirronois, "  he  found  at 
last  near  the  Place  des  Abesses. 

It  was  after  all  a  relief  to  be  alone  again  in  Paris.  He 
wanted  breathing-space ;  he  wanted  a  few  days  in  which  to 


THE  OUTSIDER  307 

think  peacefully  and  take  his  new  orientation.  And  mean- 
while he  wanted  work.  It  was  strange  that  at  this  moment 
he  was  confident  of  finding  it. 

He  called  for  a  modest  supper  which  the  proprietaire 
himself  served —  an  enormous,  round-faced  man  with  a  vast, 
blond  moustache.  It  was  Mortimer's  opinion  that  all  men 
who  grew  extravagant  moustaches  were  fools,  but  there 
was  a  pleasing  friendliness  about  this  man. 

By  half-past  eight  the  restaurant  was  almost  empty. 
Mortimer  called  for  his  bill  and,  whilst  paying  it,  opened 
the  conversation. 

"Monsieur  le  proprietaire,  I  am  looking  for  work." 
"Ah  fa,"  said  the  proprietor,  with  a  jerk  of  his  features 
indicating  at  once  interest  and  inability  to  be  of  service. 
"What  trade  are  you?" 

Mortimer  smiled.  "I  have  no  trade  just  now,"  he  said, 
"I  am  big,  strong,  ready  to  work,  and  voild  tout.  I  want 
work  of  any  kind. ' ' 

The  proprietor  took  a  seat  opposite  him. 
"What  country  are  you  from?" 

"England,"  said  Mortimer;  he  felt  ashamed  that  an 
American  should  be  in  such  straits. 

The  proprietor  was  examining  him  with  a  new  interest, 
that  raised  a  startled  hope  in  Mortimer. 
"You  are  strong?"  he  said. 

"Strong  as  an  ox,"  said  Mortimer,  standing  up.  He 
was  tall  and  lean,  but  his  whole  figure  suggested  a  wiry 
force  and  power  of  endurance. 

The  proprietor  made  noises  in  his  throat. 
"That's  rather  drole,"  he  said.    "I  could  use  a  strong 
man.    But  it's  for  hard  work,  and  dirty  work.     My  last 
man  left  me.    He  drank  like  a  fish,  and  I  threw  him  out 
yesterday." 

"What  work  is  it?"  asked  Mortimer. 


308  THE  OUTSIDER 

"Everything.  I  want  a  man  to  come  with  me  to  the 
Halles,  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  to  help  me  lay  in  the 
day's  stock.  He  must  bring  the  pushcart  back  with  me. 
You  see,  I  'm  too  fat  to  pull  a  cart  f  rom  the  Halles  up  here  — 
and  then  my  heart  isn't  right.  He  must  wash  the  dishes, 
clean  the  place  out  every  day,  everything,  restaurant  and 
kitchen,  and  at  noon  take  out  lunches.  I  don't  want  a 
shirker.  '  ' 

'  '  Give  me  the  job,  '  '  said  Mortimer,  firmly.  He  would  not 
ask  the  rate  of  pay  even. 

"When  would  you  start?"  asked  the  proprietor,  and 
Mortimer,  feeling  that  the  man  was  somehow  ^leased,  felt 
a  distinct  friendliness  for  him. 

"I'll  come  with  you  tomorrow  morning,  if  you  want,"  he 
said. 

"You'll  have  to  be  here  at  five  o'clock,"  said  the  pro- 
prietor, incredulous. 

"That's  alright  for  me,"  said  Mortimer.  He  was  elated 
beyond  words,  but  he  tried  to  maintain  what  he  thought 
should  pass  for  a  grim  and  sturdy  reliability. 

'  '  Aiid  if  you  're  the  right  man,  I  '11  give  you  food  and  ten 
francs  a  day.  That's  good  pay,  young  man;  but  I  don't 
like  a  miserable  man  round  the  place.  '  ' 

"It  is  understood,"  said  Mortimer,  with  dignity.  He 
could  have  jumped  up  and  hugged  the  red-faced,  clumsy- 
looking  giant.  Surely  everything  was  conspiring  with  him 


He  rose  from  his  place;  it  was  half-past  eight.  By  nine 
he  should  be  in  bed,  so  as  to  rise  at  half-past  four. 

"Goodnight,"  he  said,  nodding  indifferently  to  the 
proprietor.  "A  demain." 

"A  demain,"  said  the  proprietor,  staring  after  the  excit- 
able Englishman. 

He  went  out  choking  with  elation.  His  old  calculating 


THE  OUTSIDER  son 

instincts  bubbled  up  in  him  again.  Of  three  hundred 
francs,  now  his  food  was  assured,  he  would  save  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  francs,  at  least.  His  room  was  one  hundred 
and  twenty-five.  Twenty-five  would  be  ample  for  extras, 
laundry  included.  He  almost  danced  on  his  way  home. 
The  day  when  he  would  have  one  thousand  francs,  he 
would  sail  steerage  for  New  York.  And  six  hundred  francs 
he  had  already,  six  hundred  and  fifty  nearly.  He  only 
wanted  to  be  in  the  States  again.  If  he  arrived  with  five 
dollars  in  his  pocket,  that  was  ample  for  him.  And  he 
would  arrive  in  the  spring.  Back  in  the  States!  His  joy 
was  foolish  even  to  himself  and  yet  wildly  sincere.  Back 
in  the  States !  He  laughed  aloud  in  the  street.  The  thought 
of  the  tumult  of  New  York,  the  clanging,  the  shouting,  the 
rushing,  the  memory  of  it  all  intoxicated  him.  "Why  had 
he  not  understood  before  ? 

When  he  undressed  in  his  room  he  realised  how  tired  he 
was.  He  was  too  happy  to  trouble  himself  about  the  hour 
of  rising.  He  knew  that  he  would  wake  in  time. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

HE  woke  by  instinct  and  dressed  rapidly  in  the  dark,  his 
teeth  chattering  with  the  cold.  The  streets  were  grey-blue 
so  long  before  dawn,  but  already  the  thin  advance  guards 
of  the  day's  workers  were  filing  along  the  pavements,  a 
grim  and  cheerless  company,  clattering  loudly  under  the 
dead  windows.  He  heard  a  clock  strike  five  when  he  reached 
the  Place  des  Abesses.  Under  Bostvirronois'  door  the  light 
glimmered  and,  approaching,  he  saw  that  the  door  was 
ajar.  It  was  not  a  pleasant  morning — or  not  at  this  time. 

The  old  man  was  tramping  up  and  down  the  empty 
restaurant  like  a  substantial  ghost,  visible  only  by  a  tiny 
gas-jet  glimmering  in  the  lobby  that  led  to  the  kitchen. 

"Ha!  You  are  here!  Quick!  We  haven't  much  time 
to  lose." 

He  blundered  away  to  the  kitchen,  and  returned  with  a 
cup  of  hot,  black  coffee,  and  a  croissant.  The  coffee  was 
sour,  and  the  bread  dry,  but  after  they  had  been  swallowed, 
they  assumed  new  values.  Mortimer  wiped  his  lips  and 
rose  from  the  chair.  "I'm  ready,"  he  said. 

They  went  through  the  lobby  and  kitchen  into  a  rough 
courtyard,  blue-dark  and  cold  at  this  hour.  Here  a  hand- 
cart was  chained  to  a  staple.  The  old  man  unlocked  the 
chain  and  opened  the  gate  leading  into  the  Place  des 
Abesses.  Mortimer  put  his  hands  to  the  cart,  wheeled  it 
and  trundled  it  out,  and  they  set  out  through  the  half 
darkness  for  the  Halles. 

They  rattled  noisily  down  the  rue  Pigalle,  then  across 
the  rue  Lafayette  and  by  a  narrow  street  on  to  the  Main 
Boulevards.  In  the  semi-darkness  the  streets  were  begin- 
ing  to  live.  There  must  be  hundreds  of  thousands  here  in 

310 


THE  OUTSIDER  311 

Paris,  thought  Mortimer,  who  rise  at  this  hour  every  day, 
to  whom  it  is  a  natural  thing.  One  never  thinks  of  them 
in  connection  with  Paris.  He  shivered  out  of  sympathy 
with  the  lives  of  such  people. 

They  passed  the  back  of  the  Bourse,  monumentally  va- 
cuous, at  that  hour,  and  by  a  network  of  close  streets,  came 
into  sight  of  the  Halles.  The  old  giant  had  tramped  word- 
lessly all  the  way,  but  now  he  touched  Mortimer  on  the  arm. 

"Work  begins,"  he  said. 

Under  the  vast,  gloomy  roof  of  the  market-place,  the 
lights  above  the  stalls  gleamed  with  infernal  hardness. 
This  part  of  Paris  was  not  asleep.  There  was  din  and  bus- 
tle, shouting,  a  rushing  to  and  fro,  a  repellant  frenzy  of 
activity  that  thrust  Mortimer  back  on  himself. 

The  hardest  voices  were  those  of  the  women,  and  they 
seemed  to  dominate  the  halls.  They  were  like  goblins, 
shrill-voiced,  irrepressible.  Down  an  alley  whose  walls 
were  lined  with  these  unfriendly  vendors,  he  pulled  the 
handcart  after  Bostvirronois.  He  marvelled  at  the  din 
and  bustle;  so  few  people  filled  the  place  with  so  much 
noise.  But,  he  reflected,  it  is  the  illusion  of  the  vulgar  that 
to  be  noisy  is  to  be  active. 

Then  began  the  lading.  Mortimer  was  pleased  with  the 
way  his  patron  worked.  He  went  up  to  the  stall,  spoke 
quietly  to  the  owner,  and  began  to  pack  vegetables  on  to 
the  handcart.  Never  did  Mortimer,  where  he  stood,  catch 
a  word  of  his.  He  liked  the  old  man  for  it ;  to  work  under 
such  circumstances  was  pleasant.  They  went  from  one 
stall  to  another,  steadily.  Vegetables  and  fruit  came  first, 
and  last  came  meat  and  poultry.  By  the  clock  under  the 
lamp  at  the  end  of  a  hall,  Mortimer  saw  that  it  was  six 
o'clock  when  they  were  done  with  the  purchasing.  Now 
remained  the  return  journey. 

The  streets  were  lighting  dimly  by  now  and  the  trickle 


312  THE  OUTSIDER 

of  early  workers  had  swelled  into  two  double  streams  on 
either  pavement.  Individual  footsteps  were  no  longer  au- 
dible, and  the  rolling  of  the  handcart  was  deadened.  It  was 
a  hard  pull  back  to  the  Place  des  Abesses.  The  old  man 
offered  a  helping  hand  and  he  refused  it  at  first,  but  later 
he  was  glad  to  accept  it  and  to  feel  the  new  weight  push- 
ing with  him  while  he  laboured  in  front.  He  was  warm  and 
tired  and  hungry  when  he  reached  the  restaurant,  but  now, 
as  Bostvirronois  said  again,  the  work  began. 

The  greater  part  of  the  crockery  remained  to  be  washed 
from  the  previous  night.  The  restaurant,  lobby  and  kitchen 
had  to  be  swept,  the  stove  cleaned  out,  the  windows  wiped 
over.  The  old  man  worked  with  silent  and  effortless  energy, 
Mortimer  viciously,  to  forget  the  hunger  he  would  not  com- 
plain of  till  the  old  man  mentioned  it.  At  eight  o  'clock  the 
cook  arrived  and  a  girl  with  her.  Then  Mortimer  sat  down 
to  his  second  breakfast — still  coffee  and  rolls,  with  milk 
and  sugar  this  time,  and  as  much  as  he  wanted.  After  the 
breakfast  a  short  spell  of  rest.  Bostvirronois  sat  with 
him,  red-faced,  genial,  his  white  hair  standing  up  on  his 
vast  bullet  head. 

"Not  an  easy  life."  he  said. 

"Nothing  terrible,"  said  Mortimer. 

"Quite  right.  Nobody  ever  died  of  it.  But  only  fit  for 
an  animal." 

Mortimer  shrugged  his  shoulders,  French  fashion.  "It's 
life,"  he  said. 

The  old  man  repeated  the  words  with  a  sigh.  "It's  life !" 
oui.  Ah,  bon  Dieu  de  bon  Dieu!"  He  shook  his  head  and 
stared  out  of  the  window,  beyond  Mortimer.  "It's  weary- 
ing, wearying,"  he  continued  sadly.  "Always  the  same 
thing."  He  fell  into  melancholy  meditation  for  some  min- 
utes, then  rose  to  take  up  his  work. 

The  morning  passed  slowly  in  a  multitude  of  occupations. 


THE  OUTSIDER  313 

The  crockery  and  the  huge  pots  were  the  worst — disgust- 
ing, greasy  work.  A  sense  of  thoroughness  inherited  from 
frequent  K.  P.  days  under  a  bitter  old  chief  cook  kept 
Mortimer  up  to  the  mark.  The  heavy  pots  were  immacu- 
late when  he  had  finished  with  them.  The  cook  looked 
into  them  with  approval.  "C'est  ga,"  she  said  smiling. 
"Not  like  Andre;  he  left  it  so  greasy  you  could  scrape 
a  kilo  of  fat  out  of  it."  Mortimer  was  absurdly  pleased 
with  her  praise  and  showed  it.  Nevertheless,  he  did  not 
like  the  soft  flabbiness  of  his  finger-tips  when  he  had  fin- 
ished with  the  hot  water,  nor  the  irritating  dryness  that 
haunted  them  for  hours  after. 

From  nine  o'clock  on  the  iron  pots  on  the  stove  steamed 
richly.  Mortimer  spent  an  hour  preparing  "Mendiants"- 
bags  of  mixed  fruit — which  Bostvirronois  would  not  buy 
ready  prepared.  He  had  calculated  that  he  could  save 
almost  a  sous  on  every  bag,  and  give  his  clientele  better 
value.  He  let  drop  hints  through  which  Mortimer  saw 
at  times  into  the  skin-close  economy  of  the  business,  a  thing 
of  accumulating  centimes,  every  one  of  which  had  to  be 
watched  with  ceaseless  vigilance.  But  the  old  man  had 
not  been  spoiled  by  his  business,  for  Mortimer  recalled 
how,  at  the  second  breakfast,  he  had  insisted  on  Morti- 
mer's taking  a  third  cup  of  coffee  and  a  third  croissant. 

At  half -past  eleven  the  clientele  began  to  drop  in.  Bost- 
virronois and  the  girl  did  the  serving.  In  between  Morti- 
mer attended  to  a  certain  outside  service,  and  served  a 
few  customers  in  their  homes.  He  mounted  with  loaded 
trays,  returned  for  items  forgotten,  like  mendiants,  or  a 
half  bottle  of  wine.  Later  on,  in  the  afternoon,  when  he 
came  to  collect  the  crockery,  he  was  astonished  to  receive 
tips — thirty  centimes,  forty,  even  fifty ;  in  all  three  francs. 
He  pocketed  the  money  and  laughed. 

The  afternoon  passed  in  the  washing  of  the  crockery 


314  THE  OUTSIDER 

for  the  evening  service,  the  filling  of  innumerable  bottles 
and  half  bottles  of  "pinard"  from  barrels  in  a  dusty  cel- 
lar, the  sweeping  of  the  restaurant,  the  collecting  of  the 
outside  crockery.  At  six  he  sat  down  to  supper,  and  his  day 
was  ended.  He  felt  ready  to  collapse. 

Before  he  went,  the  old  man  put  a  hand  on  his  shoulder. 
1 1  Shall  I  pay  you  by  the  day  ? "  he  asked  significantly. 

Mortimer  was  grateful  but  shook  his  hand.  "Thank 
you,"  he  said,  "I  have  some  money." 

"Sure?" 

"Yes.  thank  you." 

""Well,  so  much  the  better.  You've  worked  well.  A 
demain,  heinf" 

"Goodnight." 

A  half  bottle  of  pinard  at  supper  had  put  the  last 
touch  on  his  weariness.  He  dragged  himself  up  to  his  room, 
took  off  his  shoes,  and  lay  down  on  the  bed.  He  tried  to 
read  a  little,  but  in  vain.  He  undressed  and  got  between 
the  sheets.  For  all  the  weariness  that  ran  with  sluggish 
pain  along  his  veins,  he  was  content,  and  his  last  mood  be- 
fore he  forgot  himself  in  sleep  was  one  of  returning  nor- 
mality. 

The  next  morning  was  an  easier  one,  for  nine  hours  of 
sleep  had  put  a  new  solidity  into  his  body.  Besides,  it  was 
not  so  cold  during  the  visit  to  the  Halles.  He  was 
acquainted  in  advance  with  his  duties  and  he  was  conscious 
of  having  made  a  hit  with  the  patron  and  with  the  cook. 
He  also  calculated  that  if  he  could  rely  on  those  three 
francs  a  day  in  tips,  that  would  make  no  little  difference 
to  his  plans.  His  native  contentment  returned.  He  was 
like  a  man  glad  and  astonished  to  find  that  an  evil  dream 
had  been  only  a  dream  and  not  a  reality. 

All  day  long  he  worked  in  a  subdued  content.  When 
six  o'clock  came  he  was  tired,  but  pleasantly,  and  not  even 


THE  OUTSIDER  :U5 

averse  to  a  walk  to  the  Butte  before  he  turned  in  for  the 
evening. 

He  went  home  first  to  put  011  a  clean  collar.  As  he  wont 
by  the  hotel  office  the  concierge  handed  him  two  letters, 
both  with  French  stamps,  marked  Paris.  The  handwriting 
of  both  was  unfamiliar  to  him.  He  took  them  up  to  his 
room,  wondering,  and  there,  before  washing,  opened  them. 

The  first  was  from  Lessar,  a  check  for  three  hundred 
and  seventy-two  francs.  Mortimer  stared  at  that  in  bewil- 
derment, and  scarcely  understood  the  brief  note  that  fol- 
lowed it.  He  thrust  the  check  into  his  pocket,  chuckling, 
and  glanced  at  the  end  of  the  second  letter,  to  know  at  once 
who  had  written  it. ,  It  was  signed  Carmen. 

Dear  Mortimer, 

Why  have  you  left  me  like  this?  Why  have 
you  left  me  without  a  word,  as  if  I  was  a  dog?  Yet 
you  know  well  enough  how  I  love  you,  and  you  ought 
to  know  how  I  weep  all  night  long,  and  all  day  long  at 
my  work. 

I  cannot  live  without  you.  Life  is  too  bit- 
ter and  too  hard  and,  apart  from  you,  I  have  nothing, 
nothing  in  the  whole  world.  What  have  I  done  that  you 
should  leave  me  ?  Have  I  been  exacting  ?  Have  I  not 
loved  you  enough  ? 

I  cannot  sleep  at  night,  and  I  am  ill.  I  came 
back  to  the  house  and  found  your  note,  with  your  ad- 
dress. That  was  all  you  wrote.  You  did  not  even  say 
in  the  note  that  you  are  sorry  to  leave  me.  Yet  I  have 
loved  you  well,  and  I  would  have  given  everything  to 
you.  It  was  unjust  to  leave  me  like  that.  You  have 
not  done  well.  I  want  to  see  you,  to  say  goodbye  to  you. 
Mortimer,  you  are  emel,  you  do  not  know  how  cruel 
you  are.  I  must  see  you.  I  have  something  to  tell 


316  THE  OUTSIDER 

you.  I  cannot  let  you  go  without  having  said  goodbye. 
That  is  all  I  want.  Mortimer,  I  implore  you,  do 
not  leave  me  in  this  fashion. 

I  shall  wait  for  you  outside  your  house  to- 
morrow evening,  at  eight  o'clock.  I  shall  wait  there  till 
you  come.  A  thousand  good  kisses, 

from   your   little   Carmen. 

He  read  the  note  through  twice,  with  its  uncouthness, 
its  errors  of  spelling,  and  the  sincerity  of  it  stunned  him. 
There  were  phrases  of  it  that  dinned  fiercely  in  his  ears. 
"I  weep  all  night  long  and  all  day  long  at  my  work."  It 
was  true,  she  had  not  needed  to  write  that, — and  yet  he 
had  never  thought  of  it.  He  thought  of  it  now,  those 
tired,  blunt  fingers  of  hers  working  heartlessly  from  morn 
to  night,  the  heart  weeping,  weeping  above  them,  and  hia 
own  heart  almost  ceased  to  beat.  And  even  from  where  he 
stood  he  could  see  the  desolation  of  the  room  to  which 
she  returned  from  work. 

He  remained  awhile  standing  in  a  trance  of  pain.  Then 
suddenly  he  pulled  himself  together  with  a  sharp  gesture. 
This  would  not  do.  It  was  over  and  done  with.  He  had 
been  a  fool,  after  all,  to  leave  her  his  new  address.  It  had 
been  infinitely  better  to  have  ended  it  definitely,  ruth- 
lessly. 

Unconsciously  he  took  up  her  letter,  again.  What  insis- 
tence, what  irreducible  hope!  And  the  same  childish, 
transparent  subterfuges,  so  strong  to  him  because  they  were 
so  helpless.  She  wanted  only  to  see  him  once!  And  per- 
haps she  believed  what  she  said.  Or  there  was  a  wild, 
unworded  hope  that  she  could  win  him  back.  Love  is  like 
life,  he  thought  heavily,  it  clutches  at  straws.  What  could 
she  hope  for?  Another  week?  Another  month?  Could 
she  not  see  that? 


THE  OUTSIDER  317 

Ah,  he  was  hard  and  unjust!  He  recognised  that.  He 
might  as  well  chide  some  outcast  lost  in  a  desert,  who  had 
given  up  hope  of  rescue,  and  who  yet  insisted  on  drinking 
his  water  to  the  last  drop.  Yes,  he  would  do  better  to  kill 
himself  at  once,  but  who  could  expect  it  of  him  ? 

"I  have  loved  you  well!" 

It  was  true.  The  words  stabbed  him.  Then  again,  with 
passionate  brusqueness,  he  put  the  letter  down  and  went 
on  changing  his  dress.  One  of  them  would  have  to  be 
strong,  for  it  was  the  end. 

He  went  slowly  from,  the  house,  absorbed  in  thought, 
and  heedless  of  his  path.  Mechanically  he  took  the  up- 
ward streets,  toward  the  church.  A  light  snow  was  fall- 
ing, the  first  of  the  year.  It  carried  into  the  lower  cham- 
bers of  his  consciousness  a  bitter  sense  of  loss,  and  an 
unmeaning  relief,  as  of  a  man  undeceived  from  a  torturing 
hope.  The  end  of  the  year  was  here — nothing  done,  no- 
thing done — nothing  done.  Like  the  roar  of  a  bell  the 
words  lifted  and  sank.  He  might  have  been  back  in  the 
homeland  by  now,  with  feet  planted  firm  in  the  soil  of 
action,  with  the  beginning  of  a  record. 

He  did  not  observe  the  timid  figure  that  followed  him 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  road;  but  his  thought  reverted 
to  her,  rising  out  of  a  chaos  of  indefinite  discontent  to 
this  clear  reproach. 

"I  have  loved  you  well." 

Was  it  his  fault?  Should  he  pay  because  she  had  not 
understood.  He  rebelled  at  this  assumption  of  debt.  She 
had  not  understood.  .  .  .  He  hesitated  on  the  phrase, 
tried  to  repeat  it,  and  his  heart  failed  him.  Was  it  true? 
Had  she  alone  misunderstood?  Had  there  been  no  misun- 
derstanding on  his  part  .  .  .  then?  .  .  .  Now?  .  .  . 

He  came  face  to  face  with  her  on  the  deserted  plateau. 
She  had  crossed  the  street  and  when  he  turned  brusquelj 


318  THE  OUTSIDER 

she  could  not  avoid  him.    But  she  shrank  from  his  startled 
look. 

"You  here?" 

No  answer.  They  stood  at  gaze,  she  tortured  by  a  single 
passion,  he  by  a  multitude.  "What  should  he  say  to  her? 
Perhaps  she  had  a  right,  after  all,  to  see  him  from  time 
to  time.  She  spoke  at  last. 

"I  have  brought  you  something  back,  Mortimer." 

"What?" 

She  held  out  an  envelope. 

"That  money,"  she  stammered. 

He  was  bewildered  a  moment,  and  then  recoiled.  "Good 
God,  no.  I  don't  want  it." 

"I  don't  want  it,  either." 

"But  I  don't  want  it,  I  can't  have  it!" 

"I  don't  want  it."  she  repeated  mournfully.  "You 
mustn  't  buy  yourself  out  like  that. ' ' 

He  bit  his  lip.     How  curiously  she  saw  things! 

' '  We  must  not  talk  about  money,  Carmen.  I  can 't  touch 
money  I  earned  like  that." 

"And  I  can,"  she  said,  almost  inaudibly.  "I  understand 
you,"  she  said,  in  the  same  terrible  whisper.  "I  understand 
everything. ' '  The  envelope  dropped  from  her  hand. 

"I  am  a  cad,"  he  said  to  himself,  the  blood  rushing  into 
his  face.  "I  don't  mean  that,  Carmen,  you  know  I  didn't." 
His  voice  was  eager  and  friendly.  He  laid  his  hand  on 
her  arm.  "It's  different.  It  would  be  horrible  for  me  to 
use  it  for  myself.  But  not  you,  Carmen. ' ' 

The  warmth  and  instinctive  tenderness  of  his  voice  elec- 
trified her.  She  lifted  her  eyes  suddenly  to  his  and  the 
old,  fierce  question  burned  in  them.  He  dropped  her  arm. 
Good  God!  Was  there  no  way  of  speaking  plainly  and 
simply  with  her? 

He  stooped,  picked  up  the  envelope  and  thrust  it  sud- 


THE  OUTSIDER  319 

denly  into  the  pocket  of  her  coat.  She  made  no  gesture. 
Her  head  had  fallen  again.  And  again  they  stood  silent. 
Mortimer  set  his  teeth,  and  words  he  could  not  control 
came  icily  from  his  lips. 

' '  Carmen,  you  must  not  see  me  any  more. ' ' 

She  did  not  stir.    She  seemed  not  to  have  heard. 

"You  must  leave  me  now." 

She  did  not  look  up.  " Where  shall  I  go?"  she  asked,  in 
a  low  voice. 

"I  don't  know,  Carmen,"  he  said,  struggling  to  repress 
a  note  of  despair.  "I  must  leave  you." 

He  held  out  his  hand  to  her.  She  ignored  it.  He  waited 
a  moment  then  turned  and  went  from  her.  His  lips  were 
set,  his  hands  clenched.  He  would  have  to  be  the  strong 
one. 

The  snow  was  falling  more  thickly.  His  footsteps  were 
deadened  under  him.  Waves  of  flakes  dashed  into  his  face 
and  settled  on  his  clothes.  Gone  was  the  content  of  the 
day.  There  was  no  rest  for  him,  no  rest,  no  peace,  till  he 
had  left  this  country. 

He  stopped  a  moment  as  a  thought  came  into  his  mind, 
and  turned  round.  A  few  feet  behind  him  Carmen  was 
shrinking  into  the  shelter  of  a  wall.  He  stood  still  and 
drew  hissing  breath  between  his  teeth.  What  would  this 
mean? 

He  went  up  to  her. 

"Carmen!" 

She  looked  at  the  ground;  a  shudder  ran  through  her 
body. 

He  was  seized  with  a  sickness  of  bewilderment.  What 
was  to  be  done  ? 

"You  mustn't  do  this,"  he  said,  hoarsely. 

"What?" 


320  THE  OUTSIDER 

"Follow  me,  like  this."  He  made  a  violent  gesture  of 
emphasis. 

"Where  shall  I  go?" 

"But  what  shall  I  do,  Carmen?"  He  struggled  with 
himself  not  to  scream  this  question  at  her.  "What  shall  I 
do?  You  mustn't  follow  me  about  like  this." 

' '  I  have  nowhere  to  go, "  she  said,  and  began  to  cry  softly. 
"Wherever  I  go  it  is  terrible.  It  makes  me  think  you  are 
dead." 

' '  But — I  cannot — do—anything. ' ' 

"Last  night  I  tried  to  stay  in  my  room,"  she  said,  sobbing. 
' '  Oh,  I  could  not,  I  could  not.  I  went  out,  and  where  could 
I  go  but  here  ?  I  stood  here  last  night  and  I  thought  of  you 
because  I  love  you,  Mortimer. ' ' 

She  became  incoherent.  "What  shall  I  do?"  she  asked, 
and* held  his  arm  in  a  fierce  hand.  "What?  Shall  I  tear 
my  heart  out  and  show  it  to  you  ?  You  do  not  believe  me  ? 
Last  night  at  home  it  was  dreadful.  I  wish  I  were  buried 
with  Jeanne's  baby.  But  I  cannot  die,  Mortimer,  I  cannot 
leave  you.  I  would  rather  stand  outside  your  window  all 
this  winter  night,  and  think  of  you  lying  in  your  room,  you, 
and  I  would  kiss  you  when  you  sleep.  Oh  when  you  sleep, 
you  do  not  think  of  me,  and  that  is  so  good  to  me.  If  I 
were  in  the  room  then  you  would  not  be  angry  with  me.  I 
would  sit  by  and  look  at  you  all  the  hours  you  slept  and  I 
would  love  you  and  love  you  while  you  slept,  Mortimer,  my 
darling. ' '  She  began  to  cry  again  and  put  her  hands  to  her 
face  with  that  familiar  trick  of  hers  that  pierced  his  heart. 
"Mortimer,  you  are  so  good.  I  know  that  you  are  good,  and 
that  is  why  I  love  you.  You  think  I  do  not  know  how  good 
you  are.  All  my  life  I  will  love  you,  because  you  are  good." 

He  groaned. 

"Just  now,"  she  said,  "let  me  stand  near  you  only  a 
minute.  Then  you  can  go.  But  I  will  follow  you,  Mortimer, 


THE  OUTSIDER  321 

You  need  not  look  at  me.    I  will  not  come  and  speak  to 
you." 

"You  must  not  follow  me,  Carmen."  She  seemed  not  to 
hear. 

"You  must  not  follow  me,"  he  said,  and  the  sickness  of 
bewilderment  began  to  turn  into  blind  action.  "I  will  not 
have  it.  Do  you  hear  me?  You  must  not  dare  to  follow 
me." 

She  sighed.  Reaction,  a  hysteria  of  cruelty,  seized  Mor- 
timer. 

"I  want  to  be  free  of  you,"  he  said,  in  an  intense  whisper. 
"I  am  finished  with  you,  finished.  Do  you  hear?  Do  you 
hear?" 

She  lifted  a  hand  to  seize  his  arm  again.  He  struck  the 
hand  from  him  and  turned.  He  walked  away  swiftly, 
raging,  unseeing.  He  ran.  He  took  every  corner  he 
reached,  careless  of  his  destination.  Then,  at  last,  terrified, 
breathless,  he  stopped  and  looked  round.  Carmen  was  not 
to  be  seen.  He  leaned  against  a  wall,  panting,  unable  to 
take  deep  breath  for  the  needle  in  his  left  side.  Was  the 
girl  mad,  mad? 

He  would  go  home,  he  would  read,  he  would  forget  her. 
Then  he  remembered  that  all  the  time  she  would  be  standing 
outside  his  room,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street.  "So 
much  the  worse,"  he  said,  grinding  his  teeth,  and  with  de- 
liberate steps  turned  homewards  again. 

When  he  reached  the  rue  Tholoze  he  kept  his  eyes  fixed 
rigidly  on  his  own  side  of  the  street.  He  would  not  look  in 
her  direction.  Let  her  stand  there.  What  could  he  do? 
Then,  when  he  reached  the  door  of  his  hotel,  he  looked 
swiftly  round.  No  one.  He  stopped  at  the  door  and  looked 
searchingly  at  the  other  side.  No,  she  was  not  there.  Yet 
it  was  almost  half  an  hour  since  he  had  left  her.  He  went 


322  THE  OUTSIDER 

over  to  the  other  side  of  the  street  and  paced  fifty  yards 
each  way  in  front  of  his  door.  She  was  not  there. 

He  looked  up  and  down  the  street  and  then  went  up  to 
his  room.  Thank  God,  he  would  be  able  to  sleep  that  night. 
He  sat  down  first  to  read,  and  stared  stupidly  at  one  book 
after  another.  After  a  while  he  put  the  light  out  suddenly 
and  went  to  the  window.  The  moon  was  hanging  full  over 
the  street,  to  his  right,  and  the  opposite  side  of  the  street 
was  in  slight  shadow.  But  the  snow  threw  a  pallor  up 
against  the  wall.  He  looked  carefully  left  and  right.  No 
Carmen.  Surely  it  was  an  hour  since  he  had  left  her. 

She  had  gone  home  then.  It  was  better,  for  what  could 
she  gain  by  this  double  torture?  She  had  understood  at 
last;  she  knew  now  that  she  must  renounce  him,  that  no- 
thing remained  of  their  adventure  but  a  doubtful  memory. 
Poor  little  Carmen,  good  little  Carmen.  She  was  not  of 
his  world,  she  was  of  the  Paris  he  had  abandoned  forever. 

He  stood  at  the  window  a  long  time,  thinking  idly,  and, 
as  his  habit  was,  took  to  turning  over  in  his  mind  one  of 
his  own  thoughts ;  she  was  not  of  his  world,  she  was  of  the 
Paris  he  had  abandoned  forever.  And  he  wondered:  was 
she  indeed  of  that  Paris?  "Was  she  of  the  Paris  he  had 
known  apart  from  her,  the  Paris  which  is  not  France  ?  Did 
she  belong  to  the  lost  world,  the  hopeless,  careless,  indiffer- 
ent wastrels,  the  empty  of  grace  and  will  ?  The  slow  doubt 
gathered  in  his  mind.  That  was  not  Carmen.  That  world 
did  not  love  as  she  did.  Then  he  added,  startlingly,  nor 
understand  as  she  did !  She  did  understand,  without  know- 
ing it.  She  understood  that  under  the  surface  blundering 
his  soul  longed  for  goodness  and  order;  he  was  not  good, 
yet  she  had  called  him  good.  That  was  what,  unknowing, 
she  had  meant. 

She  was  gone  and  done  with ;  this  grew  steadily  on  him 
as  a  second  and  a  third  hour  went  by,  and  he  stood  yet  at  the 


THE  OUTSIDER  323 

window,  dreaming  on  the  snow  that  was  falling,  drift  of 
gold  round  the  lamps  and  vague  drift  of  ghostlings  out- 
side the  circles  of  their  light.  They  were  covering  up  the 
footsteps  that  still  remained  on  the  sidewalk — her  footsteps, 
too,  filling  them  up,  hiding  them  forever.  He  wondered  if 
he  could  still  go  out  and  find  her  traces  of  two  or  three 
hours  ago.  No,  they  were  gone  now,  the  last  sign  he  might 
have  of  her,  this  curious,  passionate  little  soul,  tortured  by 
the  mind  and  body  it  had  snatched  at  random  to  enter  the 
world  in. 

She  was  back  in  her  room  now,  thinking  of  his  room,  as  he 
of  hers.  Lying  in  bed,  or  working  with  head  bowed  under 
the  lamp. 

He  could  think  safely  of  her  now — she  was  gone  forever ; 
there  was  no  danger.  He  lay  down  to  sleep,  and  long,  long 
he  pondered  on  a  hopeless  problem.  Who  was  this  Carmen  ? 
He  could  not  find  an  answer,  but  a  conviction  lurked,  cer- 
tain and  intangible,  at  the  back  of  his  mind,  that  to  this 
question  there  was  a  startling  answer,  one  which  would 
light  up  his  mind  and  his  life,  if  he  could  but  find  it.  And 
in  the  dreams  and  half-dreams  of  that  night  he  saw  her, 
and  asked  himself,  perplexed,  desperate,  "Who  is  she? 
Who  is  she?" 

All  the  day  long  that  followed  he  was  glad  of  his  work ; 
for  though  thoughts  of  Carmen  haunted  him  without  respite 
they  could  not  torture  him.  Dimly  he  was  aware  that  his 
mind  was  working  with  an  aim ;  and  because  he  could  only 
give  subdued  and  hidden  attention  to  its  labors  he  believed 
it  would  succeed.  He  even  strove  to  drive  her  from  his 
mind,  believing  that  time  and  the  blind  converse  of  unin- 
tended thought  would  be  more  successful  than  he.  And  a 
strange,  intangible  confidence  came  over  him  towards  the 
end  of  the  day.  He  would  learn  with  certainty  who  Carmen 
was.  All  would  be  well  in  the  end. 


324  THE  OUTSIDER 

In  this  mood  he  returned  to  his  room  in  the  evening,  and 
found  on  his  table  a  letter  with  an  American  post-mark. 
On  the  reverse  side  of  the  envelope  he  read,  "Fred  Ainsley, 
248  Michigan  Avenue,  Milwaukee,  Wis."  He  remembered 
suddenly  and  was  startled. 

' '  Dear  Mortimer, 

The  first  point  of  this  letter  is  to  advise  you  that  I'm 
sending  you  two  hundred  and  forty  dollars  through  the 
First  National  Bank  which  you  can  collect  at  the  Farmer's 
Loan  and  Trust  Company  in  Paris.  .  .  . 

He  did  not  read  further  awhile.  Then,  when  he  tried  to 
read  he  caught  only  phrases  which  he  could  not  string  to- 
gether— "Wilfred  Hill  .  .  .  coming  back  .  .  .  your 
Indian  and  canoe  fetched  .  .  .  the  boys.  .  .  ."  He 
put  the  letter  down,  knowing  he  could  not  read  it  that 
evening,  and  sat  down.  Only  a  few  moment's  later  did  the 
significance  of  this  break  through  to  his  intelligence  and 
overwhelm  him.  It  was  money,  his  own  money,  two  hun- 
dred and  forty  dollars,  more  than  he  needed,  much  more 
than  he  needed. 

He  walked  feverishly  along  the  narrow  strip  from  the 
window  to  the  book-case  and  back  again.  Was  not  every- 
thing clear  in  his  mind?  Was  he  not  returning  to  the 
States,  to  his  own  country — with  Carmen? 

With  Carmen,  he  said,  laughing  hysterically,  with  Car- 
men, my  wife  There  was  the  answer,  come  of  itself  Who 
else  was  Carmen,  if  not  his  wife  ?  The  word  rang  with  in- 
finite assurance  and  purpose.  "My  wife."  he  said  aloud. 
How  certain  was  the  world  now,  how  steadily  the  issues  of 
his  life  were  emerging  from  tangle  and  darkness.  All 
things  work  with  an  aim  for  him  who  has  an  aim.  he  said 
jubilantly.  A  week  ago,  because  I  had  no  aim,  life  was 


THE  OUTSIDER  ,325 

chaos  and  accident;  and  today  I  would  not  revoke  a  single 
lesson  of  those  days. 

He  would  wait  no  longer.  He  left  the  house  and  took  a 
downward  path  through  the  streets  ugly  with  trampled 
snow.  Oh,  it  was  good  to  walk  so,  to  feel  invisible  atten- 
dance, all  his  life  walking  with  him,  strong  and  wholesome. 
Not  a  hundred  times  the  tumult  of  this  city,  or  of  the  whole 
world,  vehement  with  action  and  counteraction,  could  turn 
him  from  his  path.  Nay,  infinity  was  in  conspiracy  with 
him.  He  gloried  in  the  universe,  in  himself.  .  .  . 

He  walked  deliberately,  not  too  swiftly.  Time  did  not 
matter  now.  He  knew,  too,  that  Carmen  would  not  reach 
home  for  another  hour.  He  could  walk  all  the  way — down 
the  slopes  to  the  Boulevards,  by  the  rue  Royale,  then  across 
to  the  Invalides,  and  then  up  to  her  room.  Even  her  joy, 
her  bewilderment  he  forgot.  The  purposes  of  their  lives  had 
ordained  it  so  It  was  natural,  she,  the  Normande,  he,  the 
American,  walking  with  the  threads  of  their  destiny  in  their 
hands,  to  meet  in  Paris,  so,  to  become  man  and  wife.  There 
was  no  room  for  bewilderment.  Better  than  he,  because  she 
was  nearer  in  heart  to  the  mother-pulse  of  life,  she  had 
known  that  they  could  not  leave  each  other.  She  would  say, 
"I  knew  it,"  and  laugh  into  his  eyes.  .  .  . 

When  he  reached  the  Madeleine,  he  still  had  three 
quarters  of  an  hour  to  spare.  He  went  down  the  rue  Royale, 
and  at  the  corner  of  the  rue  St.  Honore  stopped,  amused. 
He  would  go  down  to  the  Lapin  Cuit,  and  take  a  drink 
there,  and  laugh  at  the  place.  Poor  Lapin  Cuit!  Poor 
people  that  haunted  it,  filtering  through  its  dinginess  out  of 
chaos  into  chaos,  out  of  the  void  into  the  void. 

He  opened  the  door  and  looked  round  swiftly.  He  saw 
Gorman  with  Mrs.  Cray  in  their  corner,  Masters  with  Renee, 
a  few  strangers,  Jeanne — and,  in  another  corner,  Fulson — 
with  Mado.  He  took  in  the  scene  with  a  single  look. 


326  THE  OUTSIDER 

' '  Good  evening, ' '  he  said  smiling  at  them. 

There  was  no  reply. 

He  saw  their  eyes  fixed  on  his,  startled.  There  was  sud- 
denly a  fearful  stillness  in  the  room.  He  stared  at  their 
frightened  faces,  tried  to  speak  and  failed.  He  knew  that 
on  his  own  face  the  same  terror  was  now  written.  And  he 
heard  a  deadly  whisper  from  someone : 

"The  murderer!' 


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